


Hallowed

by saarebitch



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, F/M, Gore, but think of it as a dark au, i wrote this before trespasser so some of the lore is off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saarebitch/pseuds/saarebitch
Summary: What if Elain had become the Inquisitor instead of Sar'een? A collection of vignettes telling a tragedy that was never to be.I took this fic down awhile ago because I didn't like it and some of the stuff I did, but after some thought, decided to put it back up for my own posterity. It's not a bad work; it's just a difficult one. It was written in the summer of 2015, a few months before Trespasser came out, so some of the lore doesn't line up. Just keep that in mind!Best enjoyed if you read my fic,Birthright, first.





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> ****Content warning for smut in this chapter*****

Morning poured through the room in a shower of light, landing gently on her head, its golden rays making her tangled, beaded hair shine brilliantly. The light touched her shoulder as well, casting subtle shadows and drawing the eye to its alluring curves. Her breathing was soft, sleep still holding her, and her body was as warm as the hearth in winter. It begged to be touched, to be caressed, to be explored; for someone properly devout to worship in its heat.

It was all the more tempting in the bitter, cold cesspool that was Haven.

Revas had been awake for an hour. He took the time to get out of the comfortable, warm bed in their comfortable, warm room at the inn to get them some breakfast. It had been early, the night still hanging in the sky, and the halls on the way to the kitchen were quiet. Not empty, but quiet. He heard the soft padding of his bare feet on the chilly ground and little else. The hearth in the common area and the kitchen itself was warm, and he dropped two coppers on the counter for a cut of bacon and some buttered bread for himself, and a silver for a special treat for Elain. He ate his food quickly, not wanting to leave her alone for too long, and made his way back to their room. There were a few shemlen up after his breakfast, some paying him no mind while others stared at him openly. Revas stared right back, intimidating the soft Chantry clerics with his gaze, flashing the most sinister grin he could muster. This wasn’t a mission to make alliances or even acquaintances, they were merely there to observe. 

And he didn’t think there was anything wrong with observing how easily he could scare these humans by playing the savage elf. 

He returned to the room, and found that Elain had not stirred the entire time he was gone. She didn’t even move when he noisily removed his clothes again and crawled back into the warm bed with her.The shem wine from the night before must have taken its toll. She even still smelled a little of wine, mixed with her usual scent of fire and that resin stuff her father got for her. He buried his nose in her hair to remember it, piecing together a full memory of their time in the little room at Haven with every sense. The smell of her hair, the taste of the wine on her lips the night before, the sensation of her teeth sinking into his skin, the sight of her bare body laid out before him, the sound of her saying his name in the dark.

He found himself growing impatient as he waited for her to wake, and began running his hands over her sleeping form. Fingertips brushed her stomach, making the fine, tiny hairs stand on end, and his mouth grazed her exposed shoulder. The tip of his tongue touched her skin, tasting her again, making him want more. He indulged himself by dragging his teeth over the soft flesh leading to her neck. His fingers moved down, over the planes of her stomach, feeling the cords of her muscled thigh, then back up, meeting the suppleness of her breast. He cupped it in one hand, feeling its weight and squeezing it gently, before letting it fall and doing the same for the other. 

Elain began to wake now, her eyes fluttering and her legs straightening and stretching. He was too preoccupied to greet her though. Any time they were alone was precious anymore, and his focus on making the most of it drew him into the moment. He sucked lightly on her neck and rolled her nipple between his fingers, satisfied when it hardened into a bud and made her arch her back into his chest. He burned the sensation of it into the memory too; the texture, rough but inviting, the pinkish brown color that seemed to darken when he played with her, the soft sighs it drew from her parted lips as he pinched her firmly, her warmth pressing into his growing hardness. This memory would have to sustain him in the weeks afterwards when he was once again only the Shadow standing in the light of the Maiden. 

Revas wished it didn’t have to be that way.

He had been Banal’ras for seven years. Seven years he walked by her side, stood with her in Council, threatened her enemies. And for seven years, his love for her only grew -- despite her fumbling gestures to push him away in an effort to alleviate her guilt. Stolen moments were never enough anymore. They didn’t cool his ardor and they didn’t prevent his heart from beating out of his chest every time he saw her. He wanted it to be different. For him to see her every morning when he woke up, not just fleeting days that became scarcer and scarcer as their responsibilities grew. For their glances and affection to be given freely instead of stolen in secrecy. He sighed, and tugged on her nipple before letting it go.

Her arm reached around and cradled his head, “Good morning.”

“So far,” he murmured in her ear, “We’ll see if it stays that way.”

She laughed, another fleeting thing, and sat up in the bed. Her eyes wandered to the leftover wine bottle on the small table on the side of the bed next to him, and she leaned over to grab it. He heard her gasp lightly when he saw the treat he had gotten for her in the bowl next to the bottle. 

“I didn’t think they could get peaches up here,” she said, surprise and excitement coloring her voice.

“With all the important shemlen showing up for this, they have everything up here,” he sat up next to her, smiling as she excitedly grabbed the bowl of fruit. “They’re out of season though, so kind of hard and bland. I had the cook put some honey on them to sweeten them up.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She adjusted herself there, straddling him while balancing the bowl with her prize.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly before placing a quick kiss on his nose.

She brought a slice of the peach to her mouth, and her lips parted so prettily as she took her bite. Her eyes closed as she savored the fruit, her tongue rolling over the morsel, a contented sigh escaping, making her shoulders go limp. Another picture to burn into his mind to remember. Elain eating her favorite food, blissful in the simple pleasure it brought. 

The next bite went into her mouth, and the honey dripped off the slice of peach, falling down onto her breasts before she could stop it. He watched the trail drizzle downwards, entranced with its journey over the rounded curves. He delayed the instant gratification he would get licking it up to gain a clearer picture of the moment in his mind. It was languorous but wet, thinner because of the juice of the peach. It slid with purpose and clung to the textured skin of her nipple, and then slowed to a stop right at the tip, lingering there instead of falling further. The light of morning made it glisten, and time seemed to all but stand still in the moment until his mouth fell onto her of its own accord. 

His tongue lathed over her hot skin as he cleaned up the sweet mess, his hands firmly gripping her back so he could properly give her the attention due. She moaned quietly, her own hands coming to the back of his head to brace herself as he ate her up. And he did devour her. Teeth scraping against the freckled skin, tasting every inch of her, hands digging into her spine as he struggled to get more and more.. He nipped at the dark bud, now hardened not by his teasing, but by her own arousal. It tasted of the honey, and he set his tongue to work flicking over it, reveling in every sensation that came with it. The breakfast was long forgotten now, the bowl haphazardly tossed back onto the table. Her fingers raked his scalp instead and she pressed her body against his, seeking out more just as surely as he was constantly searching for more. 

The wetness growing between her thighs pressed against him as well, and he nudged her entrance with his waiting cock. She gasped, and pulled her hands away from his head.

“Revas, we can’t. It’s getting late,” she turned her head towards the locked door, “The others will be waiting for us.”

He pulled on her nipple with his teeth, watching as the dark pinkish flush crept up her chest to her face.

“I can be quick,” he murmured as he moved onto kissing her bruised neck. 

She gripped his jaw with her hands at the statement, making him look directly into her face. Her thumbs ghosted over his cheeks, tracing the vallaslin there. She sighed softly, then leaned in and pressed her mouth against his.

“I don’t want you to be quick,” her lips melted into his, kissing him slowly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her chest to his, her forehead against his, their noses brushing, their lips entangled.

“Everything is always so fast,” her voice was raspy and low, “Don’t you want to savor the time we have?”

He ran his hands up and down the length of her back, letting his nails lightly graze the expanse of her skin. 

“You said we don’t have any time,” he answered into her mouth, his own voice hoarse. She deepened their kiss, her mouth opening and her tongue seeking out his. It was a joy when they met, all wetness and warmth, another layer to add to his memory. 

Her hips began to grind away at him, the wet slit between her legs edging his cock, and he knew there was no turning back for him now. A fire was lit that couldn’t be extinguished without him inside of her, and he tangled his hand into her hair, hoping it would encourage her. She drew away from his mouth, only for a moment.

“We don’t have time. We never have time,” a whisper spoken with labored breath. He bared his teeth.

“Do you want me to beg?” a question as he bit at her lips, “You know I will for you.”

With a swift movement of her waist, she sheathed herself onto him, and he moaned in surprise and relief. The warmth and wetness of her mouth was nothing compared to this, and his eyes clenched shut at the sensation. 

“I know you would,” her hips rocked against him, holding him deep inside of her, “But I don’t want that today. I want something else.”

His grip on her hair tightened as she made shallow thrusts against him, tantalizing him, making him hungry for more. 

“Anything you want...” he groaned before falling on her mouth again. Her lips were addictive this morning, drawing him back in over and over. They were sweet from the honey, from the peaches, from her words, from her sighs. More fuel for his vivid memory of their time in Haven.

“I know,” she silenced him as she took his lower lip between hers and sucked on it gently, teasing him by flicking her tongue over it. 

She rode him slowly, her hips moving in deliberate, languid movements as her hot core slid up and down the length of him. Her chest was pressed close to his, her hardened little buds brushing against him, and her tongue sought out relief in his. He fought a hopeless battle in trying to withhold from her, trying to squeeze out every second. Hopeless, as he was always hers for the taking. In every move, every motion, he was hers. The command wasn’t spoken, but he knew it. The way her nails dug into his back, the way her legs clenched tightly around his waist, the way her hips snapped every time she buried him inside of her…

It all spoke of her taking what she wanted from his body, and he was all too happy to let her have it. Anything she wanted, and Elain always wanted it all. 

Her pace never quickened, never strayed from the steadiness of her motions, but his heartbeat did. She was so warm, so very warm, and it made him feel warm. Rise and fall, rise and fall, and then he opened his eyes long enough to look between them; her breasts swaying, his cock disappearing inside of her, her tightly-shut eyes as she focused on using him for her release and pulling his out of him as well. He moaned into her wet mouth, and shivered when she did the same. His mind was becoming clouded as he ached in need for her, and he was disappointed this moment wouldn’t be quite as clear in his memory.

His disappointment was short-lived, as he lived in the moment itself. Her breath began to grow heavy, labored from exertion and from her impending climax, her hands plunged into his hair, mirroring his own hands.. Her moans came more frequently now, and despite her preternatural control, her hips began to crash against him wildly. His fist wrapped around a handful of her hair tightly, and he brought the other to the base of her spine, guiding her into him as fast as she would allow. 

She cried out as she came, louder than he had expected,, and her body trembled in the aftermath. Her breath turned into exhausted pants, and her body went limp. He held her close as she recovered, covering her face in kisses, trying desperately to hold on as her inner walls continued to clench around him. To his immense relief, she began moving again shortly after, harder this time, for his benefit. 

He was very grateful.

“Revas…” she whispered his name into his ear.

Her voice, the way it sounded…despite his thoughts being centered on his own release now, he tried to remember how she sounded. He wanted to remember.

He wanted to say something too, but his voice could do nothing but choke out moans and incomplete noises. The pressure was building to a peak in him, her warmth spreading throughout his entire body. The thoughts of the morning overwhelmed him now; the sun, the peaches, her eyes fluttering in her sleep...all coming back to him as she pulled his own release out with the unbearable heat between her legs.

Revas forced her forehead to his roughly as he came, their noses crashing together sloppily, his teeth seeking out and biting her swollen lips. He emptied himself of what felt like everything for her. He gasped and panted, his eyes closed, his heart beat rapidly, and he felt her fingertips run over his shoulders. A soft, sweet gesture that he probably didn’t deserve but appreciated none the less. His cock stopped its twitching, her inner walls stopped their spasming, and they both fell backwards onto the bed. 

They laid quietly for awhile, touching each other softly, pretending that they had nothing to worry about, to care about, but each other. 

“I wish it could always be like this,” she said after some time, her voice hushed and tinged with sadness. He stroked her back, making slow circles up her spine as he contemplated.

“It could be,” he said impulsively, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them, “We could always just leave.”

“And where would we go?” she asked as she nuzzled into his chest.

“Anywhere,” the idea started taking form in his mind, “Anywhere with a city close to wilderness, really. I could hunt -- get fur, pelts, teeth -- and you could use them to make nice things for the rich shems to wear.”

“So you get to do the same thing you’ve always done, and I have to stay at home and work hard to make a living?” she propped her head into the crook of his neck.

“Not hard,” he assured her, turning to kiss her forehead, “Just make a few things, then sell them for a fortune. I heard the human nobles go crazy over authentic Dalish jewelry.”

“Hmm,” her fingers idly stroked the scar in the center of his chest, “And what would we do when you weren’t hunting and I wasn’t selling our heritage to greedy shemlen?”

“I don’t know,” he bit his lip pensively, “Maybe get a little farm, keep some animals, start a family.”

“Oh?”

He grinned at her widely, “Sure. We could spend our downtime making lots of little babies.”

She giggled, something she only did for him. His heart raced at the sound.

“I didn’t know you wanted lots of little babies,” she trailed small kisses on his neck, “In fact, I am almost positive you hate children.”

“Other people’s children, yeah,” he replied honestly. There was no point in lying to her. “But I think I might like ours.”

Another laugh, this one less light-hearted. 

“We can’t just leave and start a family. Your mother would kill us,” she sighed. 

“She would hunt us down and lecture us. Your father _would_ kill me, though.”

“Probably,” the lightness of the conversation left her voice, “It all seems so easy, doesn’t it? Just leave our lives, start a new one together. But we’ve worked so hard for everything we have. Is it really that simple to give it all up?”

His heart sank, knowing her answer already. 

“Not simple. But maybe worthwhile,” he brushed his fingers through her hair, “So it can always be like this.”

She said nothing for a few moments, and they both laid in each others’ arms, knowing how this would end.

“Would you really leave it all behind? For us?” she finally questioned, her voice shaking. 

“All you have to do is say the word, Peach.” It was the truth. All she had to do was say so, and he’d leave everything behind. But he knew she wouldn’t.

Elain sat up and climbed out of the bed, stretching her limbs. She picked up her clothes off the floor, shaking them out before starting to dress.

“It’s much more convenient that way for you. It puts the burden of saying ‘yes’ on me, and the consequences as well. So in a decade when we are both miserable, eeking out a living selling scraps to shemlen, then in your mind, you’re absolved,” her words were full of unhappiness, not anger. She turned to him.

“I can’t be the one who decides, Revas. I love you, and want everything with you, but it can’t be me. I’ve worked too hard for this. I’m sorry.”

He sighed, and climbed out of bed. Everything had happened so quick, and it pained him that the moment was already over. Nothing but a memory now. 

“It’s alright,” he placed a hand on her cheek, running his thumb over her vallaslin like she did to him earlier. He understood why now. 

“I love you too. That’s enough.”

But as they looked at each other, and kissed again before she put on the mask of the Maiden and he became her Shadow once more, he knew it was not enough.

As long as the memories lingered, it would never be enough. 


	2. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Conclave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for abusive language in this chapter**

If Elain sat and concentrated, she could remember things from very early in her life. Often they were just pictures; glimpses of a memory. A certain smell or the feel of the sun or even a word would bring her back to those places. They were hardly vivid, and never more than a few heartbeats in length. Just little loose threads sticking out of the giant tapestry of her experience. 

Her first _true_ memory was of her father. She had been playing too close to the halla, and she had gotten kicked in the face. She didn’t remember the pain, but remembered the taste of blood in her mouth. The blood tasted like metal, like her father’s work area, like the shavings that clung to his skin all the time. Elain had screamed and cried when the kick happened, and her wails could be heard throughout the camp. Sohta had been watching her and came running to help when she heard the screams, but her father arrived first. He plucked Elain off the ground, and in an unusual show of affection, hugged her tightly to his chest and kissed her head tenderly over and over again. Elain recalled snuggling her throbbing face into her father’s shirt, wetting the front of it with her snot and tears. 

Vhannas had yelled at Sohta that day. Elain believed she remembered it because her father never yelled. He was always a master of his emotions, composed even under the most dire circumstances. But he had yelled. His voice was raised, his face turned red, his entire demeanor was different than the papae Elain had always known. She was scared and cried even more. Sohta scolded him and took her from his arms, cradling her and shushing her sobbing. She clung to Sohta’s dress, burying her face in her white-blonde hair, smelling the familiar scent of the halla and dust. Vhannas relented and left and Elain did not remember anything that happened after.

That memory lingered and remained. It stayed because it taught her something. If Vhannas thought his daughter was hurting, he’d turn off his mask he wore to make sure she was okay. She used it to her advantage over the years, manipulating him subtly into doing whatever she wanted. It was endearing -- even comforting -- that her father was so willing to protect her from being in pain.

It was probably why she missed him so much now. 

The little room in Haven was empty of everything she knew, everything that was familiar. All she had were the memories. She laid on the human bed, drank from a bottle of human wine, and traced the wooden rafters of the ceiling of the little room with her hand. The glowing green mark flared slightly, causing a sharpness to shoot down her arm. It wasn’t painful, not like before, but it was still uncomfortable. Like an uncontrollable spasm, shaking her. 

The apostate elf said the mark was stabilized, that the Breach was stabilized. Stable stable stable. The shemlen celebrated that life at the moment was stable, but to Elain, it was anything but. She felt as if Elgar’nan Himself had reached across His prison and shaken the world, and the ground under her feet may swallow her up at any moment. Nothing was stable anymore, nothing was solid. She was floating in a void, the blackness threatening to swallow her up, and all she wanted to do is have her father take her in his arms and protect her. 

She played that memory over and over again as she idly moved her hand in the air, trying to recall what words Vhannas said, what words Sohta had said, what happened afterwards. It wasn’t there. Her mind reached and reached, and came up empty. It frustrated her. It scared her.

It was all too familiar. 

Elain couldn’t remember what happened at the Conclave either. The morning of the meeting was clear in her mind, but she refused to go back to that. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. It was a tangled web in her heart, and unweaving it would leave her exposed, vulnerable. She couldn’t do that now. Not with so much at stake. 

It was the meeting itself that eluded her. Whatever happened there left her with this damned mark on her hand and stripped away everything else. All her hopes, all her dreams, her entire life, gone as if it were made of smoke. If she only knew what happened, if she could only remember….

“Herald?” a voice called from behind the door into the tiny room. It was the Seeker, Cassandra.

“Come in,” she answered absently, in no mood to deal with more prying and interrogations. 

The door opened, and Cassandra walked inside. A bitter cold air came with her, making Elain shiver. 

“I believe we located one of your clan members. He was injured in the blast, but is conscious and moving around now. Some of the Chantry sisters taking care of him told him what had happened. He is very distraught and begged to see you.”

Her heart raced, a burden lifting off of it. It was too much to hope but….

“Bring him to me now, if you would,” she sat up in her bed and watched anxiously as Cassandra walked out of the cabin, motioned with her wide arm, and moved aside as footsteps approached. She was holding her breath she realized, but was too fearful to stop. 

Sorn walked in, pale and limping heavily, his leg bandaged and oozing. Her lungs emptied, and her heart went hard. She knew better to hope. It would not be a mistake she made again.

“Elain,” he came up to her, all but dragging his leg, “They’re all gone. They’re all dead.”

“I know,” she responded, reaching for the wine bottle on the table next to her. She poured herself a cup, but her hands trembled. She silently criticized herself for not being relieved her friend was alive. Sorn was as much a staple in her life as anyone else. It was cold of her to not feel joy at his survival. 

“What are we going to do? How am I going to tell Vera that Twig is dead? Llyn’s wife will need to know too,” he sat next to her on the bed, his voice shaking. 

“And what about Bran? His wife is pregnant. And Sohta. Sohta will kill us when she finds out about Revas. Oh Gods, what happened? What happened, no one will tell me,” his voice was rising, hysteria overtaking him, “What did they do? What did they do…”

“Quiet Sorn,” she brought the cup of wine to her mouth, “These shems are on edge, looking in every corner for whoever caused this. We cannot afford suspicion on us. If they suspect elves, alienages will get purged and our clans will be hunted out of existence. It’s blood I will not have on our hands.”

He stared at her, disbelief written on his face. 

“By Andruil, Elain, what is wrong with you? All our friends are dead! Everyone who came here with us is dead!” he waved his arms wildly, his voice reaching a shout now. “We’re all that’s left, and you think this is important? Damn what the shemlen think!”

She felt herself growing angry with his lack of control. This was not the time to let emotions overwhelm them.

“A hunter is a master of his suffering,” she told him through gritted teeth, “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Her anger at him was unfair and unnecessary. But she couldn’t hold it back. It ate away at her guts, boiling up in her like a pot over a fire. She stood up and paced the room to center herself before the pot boiled over. 

Sorn glared at her through the tears streaming from his eyes, “You’re being cold, Elain. I’m not doing anything wrong. They were _our friends!_ ”

Her patience was at its end and she snapped at him, “And now they’re dead. We can’t do anything for them.”

“You are unbelievable. There’s no Council here to impress! There’s no elders to try to convince your superiority to! We’re the only ones left,” his voice broke, sobs coming out, but he continued, his glare turning angry, “But you don’t care. Why would you? Everyone is expendable to the Maiden. All for the great glory of the Goddess! If a few hunters die, it’s just the way of life. Hunters can be replaced, your Shadow can be replaced, but you...you’re too important. Mourning is below you. I’m not sorry that _I am_ mourning what we lost today.”

The cup in her hand flew across the room, the tin making a clanging noise as it bounced off the wall wildly from the force of her throw. Her control was lost, and her temper flared as quickly and hotly as an inferno.

“You have no idea what I lost today!” she shouted, making Sorn flinch, “No idea! Their deaths are my deaths. They were lost under my command! I led them to their ends. Their faces will haunt me until I take my last breath. _No one_ can replace what was lost here.”

She strode up to him as he cowered under her temper, pressing her finger to the center of his chest, “You can go back home and grieve and hold Aoife in your arms and see the face of your daughter and be comforted. I will never hear Revas’ voice ever again. There is no comfort for me. Only the dead eyes and the maggots writhing in my nightmares. But I know that acting like a child in front of the humans _will not bring him back!”_

It was too late before she realized how much she had revealed to Sorn. Her hurt was too raw. She lost control. The boiling pot overflowed and now she was burned. Her anger left her immediately, and tears threatened to come instead. She refused to let them.

“I...I’m sorry, Sorn. It was too much to expect you to hide your pain. That was unfair of me. Please, forgive me,” she said quietly, sitting back down on the bed next to him. She felt out of breath, as if she had chased a beast across the plains of the Free Marches all day. 

“I didn’t know,” he replied, his own voice low, “I’m sorry too.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments, both lost in their own grief, their own pain. Elain did not like to wallow in her emotions, but she allowed herself this moment. There might not be another time in the future where she could just mourn with her friend. Such a simple thing was something she should hold onto now. 

After some time, she spoke to him, “You need to go back to the clan, Sorn. You have to tell them what happened.”

“I’m not going back without you,” he answered firmly, “I will not leave you by yourself with all these Chantry forces.”

“It’s not a request, falon. You will go,” she ordered him.

“A hunter doesn’t abandon his kin,” he argued. 

“I need someone to warn Deshanna and Sar’een about what the humans are doing. They’ll need to move the clan to safety, in case the blames falls on us. I can’t trust some Inquisition scout to do that,” she explained to him, setting her hand on his to placate him, “I’ll be fine, Sorn. I’m the only one who can close the rifts. Cassandra won’t let anything happen to me.”

“You trust these Chantry people? After everything they’ve done?” his hand was shaking under hers. 

“No,” she told him the truth, “But I have no choice. Whatever was done needs to be fixed. And whoever killed our kin will need to die.”

The last words were said with a conviction that surprised her. She wanted whoever caused this dead. And she wanted to be the one to kill them. It wasn’t the responsibility or the greater good that was driving her to stay in this gods-forsaken place. 

She would not go home until the person who destroyed her life paid her back with theirs. 

“I can’t force you to leave, and I am in no condition to try,” he said as he shook from the cold or pain, she did not know which. “I’ll go. I’ll do what I can to protect what’s left.”

“Good,” she patted his hand, “Make sure a full funeral rite is done for everyone lost. Bida can do the blessing in my stead. Sar’een will have to help her, since standing is no longer an option and--”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted her as he stood to leave, “I’ll take care of it. You just focus on saving these shems from themselves.”

She smiled at him warmly, “Safe travels, lethallin.”

“Andruil’enaste, Maiden,” he smiled back, one full of loss, and left her tiny room. 

As he walked out the door, Cassandra made her way inside.

“Is everything alright?” she asked Elain.

“Fine,” she responded, realizing Cassandra probably heard their fight. She was embarrassed at her lack of control. “I’ll need a couple of people to help Sorn get to the coast so he can take a ship to the Free Marches. Can anyone be spared?”

Cassandra nodded, “We’ll make sure he gets there safely.”

“Thank you,” was all she could say. Exhaustion was setting in, and all she wanted was to be alone. Alone to think, alone to mull over her pain. But she had to get something out of the way. 

“I also have a request,” she told the Seeker. Cassandra cocked her eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“I know members of the Chantry are going through the site of the temple, giving funerals for all the remains. I’d like to see if someone could locate a body for me,” she fought to keep her voice level. 

Cassandra awkwardly shifted her weight from one leg to another, her eyes not meeting Elains’, “There are...there are so many dead, Lavellan. Finding a specific body may be difficult.”

Elain tugged on the cord around her neck, and pulled her ivory halla charm out from under her shirt. 

“He will be wearing a necklace exactly like this, but carved from onyx instead. I am hoping it survived the blast. If...if it could be found,” she paused, the words caught in her throat, “If it could be found, I’d like to have it. The man wearing it was a dear friend of mine.”

Cassandra looked at her, but the nearly permanent scowl she wore was lifted. She understood. 

“I will try. Give me some time,” she said gently. Elain turned her head away and looked at the floor. She had already shown enough weakness today, she would not allow the Seeker to see her despair. 

“Thank you, Cassandra. I would like to be alone now,” she dismissed her, and was thankful when she left without any further questions.

As soon as the door shut, she laid back onto the bed, and resumed tracing the rafters of the ceiling with her hand. Sorn would be fine once he was with his family again. The mark flared slightly. He would cry onto his wife’s shoulder and hug his daughter tighter than he had in his entire life. Another flare. He would go to sleep with death on his mind, but a warm body next to him would keep the nightmares at bay. An even larger flare. He would heal under the sun of the Marches, with all the clan surrounding him. A pain in this flare up. She lowered her hand.

Her eyes began to feel heavy -- from exhaustion or the wine, she could not tell -- and sleep drew in on her. She closed her eyelids drifted off into her dreams with relief.

It was the only place she could see him again. 


	3. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain discusses regrets with Solas.

The arrow left the bow with a _twang_ , flying fast towards the makeshift target on the tree. The shaft spun endlessly, making the stick of wood and metal and feather soar, a whirling pinpoint of death. It struck the target in the center, cracking the bark of the wood, small pieces of it falling into the snow.

The second and third arrow left the bow with the same speed and precision, and once they hit -- nearly on top of the first shot -- Elain dropped the bow and ran to grab them. She sprinted across the heavy snow, her legs feeling numb from the cold, but she was focused on her training and nothing else. The arrows were pulled from the tree, and she ran back to her bow with long strides. 

She rolled to grab the bow off the ground, tumbling shoulders first, her knees tucked under her. She landed on the tips of her toes, balancing all her weight in a squatting position as she let loose another arrow. It struck dead center again. 

“My observation about your gracefulness is proving to be correct again,” a voice came through behind her. 

She stood upright, attempting to catch her breath. “The precision is more important than the grace. All the dancing around a battle is beautiful, but worthless if you can’t kill your prey.”

Solas looked at the target with an arrow in it, “It seems you have precision and grace in equal number, then.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard for it,” she said, before drawing another arrow, hoping it would give him a hint that she wanted to be alone. 

“How is your mark? Are you feeling anymore pain?” he did not get the hint, and watched her hold her bow with the hand covered in the flaring green glow.

The arrow flew, this time hitting the target off center.

“No. Though there is the occasional sharpness. I’ve learned it’s worse when I have emotional reactions,” she answered him, her breath still short. Elain drew her bow again.

“Hmmm,” he sounded concerned with her response. The drawstring released, and the arrow twirled into the distance. 

Ignoring him, she took off in a sprint again, this time carrying her bow. She concentrated on letting her feet hit the holes in the snow previous runs had already made, letting her get to the target faster. She yanked the arrows out again, and turned to run back, trying not to look at Solas’ furrowed brow and downturned mouth as she did. 

“You’ve been training all morning. Your level of dedication is impressive,” he remarked as she slowed to a stop at her targeting point. 

“There are very few things I’m in control of anymore,” she panted out, annoyed that he didn’t realize he was interrupting her work, “My abilities are not something I’m willing to relinquish yet.”

“You’re used to being in control,” a statement, not a question. She answered him anyways.

“In a way. No one is completely in control of this world. It’s foolish to think otherwise,” she stroked the bristled feathers at the end of her arrow, “At least I can direct my legs, my arm, my mind. That keeps me centered. Focused.”

“A pragmatic viewpoint,” he observed, “but not incorrect. We can only be in control of our own actions, and we must hold the accountability for those as well.”

She smirked as she drew her bow again, “Does this mean you’ve decided to judge me based on my actions instead of my heritage? Or is my being Dalish still too hard for you to overcome?”

He chuckled, surprising her, “You do make it difficult. You wear your heritage like a cloak, as if it can protect you from all these human influences corrupting your purity.”

Her smirk faded away. They had already argued over her being Dalish before, and had agreed to disagree in order to stay amenable. After all, they were the only elves among a horde of chantry forces at the time. It was different now, though. She would not let him continue to degrade her. 

“Or perhaps I cling tightly to the only thing I’ve ever known in order to give me strength in a world that has ostracized and subjugated our people. Perhaps my heritage is what keeps me here, making choices on behalf of the Dalish for the Inquisition. If I were to run back to my clan like the cowering little savage you think I am, what kind of person would I be then? Me being Dalish only enhances what I am, and what I am right now is a woman who is sick of your derision.”

The arrow flew, missing the target entirely. She cursed under her breath at her loss of control -- again -- and bit the inside of her lip to punish herself. Solas shifted his weight between his legs, a nervous tick she had picked up on. She had made him uncomfortable. Good.

“You are right, of course,” he finally said, his ears flushed slightly pink, “I did not mean to offend. You are Dalish, but you are also your own person. Judging you solely on your heritage is unfair.”

Elain huffed out a breath, then drew another arrow from her quiver. She didn’t want to acknowledge him at the moment, but her damnable pride wouldn’t allow her to let go.

“Judging me without my heritage is just as bad. I am who I am because of the Dalish, not despite of them.”

“I do not doubt that,” he responded, amusement tinting his voice now, “You are Dalish in everything but your actions. You can only be judged by your actions, unless it is suits you to prop up your heritage as well. They cannot be divorced, unless you do not want humans -- or myself -- to see you or your people in a negative light. Then they are entirely separate, and you can only be judged by your actions again. Have I begun to grasp your convoluted outward expression of self identity yet?”

Her ears burned. Her cheeks burned. Her neck burned. Her whole body burned in anger and embarrassment at his cutting observation of her demands. Solas brought her back down to a level that only Paeris was able to do; make her feel behind, as if she had been out-plotted, out-maneuvered. It didn’t make sense for this strange competition between them. She had nothing to gain by winning, save for her pride. But her pride was everything.

“I am merely trying to prevent you and everyone else from making hasty assumptions on me based on my ears and face while still trying to retain the only life I’ve ever known. Is there fault in that? Should I shed my identity instead and assimilate into this society and hope for the best?”

She tried her best to stay calm. Blowing up on Solas would lead her nowhere. 

His lips curved slightly at the corners, “No, you are doing fine. Perhaps I’m harder on you than I should be. You did go to Redcliffe to seek out the rebel mages, after all. Cassandra would have continued to court the Lord Seeker in hopes of an alliance with the Templars. Whether you are elf, human, or even dwarf, reaching out to those who the world sees as a dangerous burden that must be stopped at all costs is still quite commendable.”

“Replace the word ‘burden’ with ‘heathen’, and you’re describing how the Dales fell. My people are all too familiar with the long reach of the Chantry. I couldn’t allow mages who wanted nothing more than their freedom to govern themselves be victimized by yet another branch of the Andrastian body,” she responded, relieved that they could return to being civil. She turned her head towards the village of Haven behind them and motioned for him to join her in her walk back.

For all his cutting remarks and close-mindedness when it came to her people, Elain still enjoyed his company. He was intelligent and strange, but also passionate; something she could understand and appreciate. Especially now that she was alone. She missed her family, her friends, her clan, her old life. They were always on her mind, and crawling out from her bed everyday to face the emptiness that plagued her became harder and harder. Finding something familiar in Solas made it slightly easier to shoulder the burden.

“What do you make of the ‘time magic’ the Tevinter mage spoke of? It seems far-fetched, but I cannot come up with a reason why he would lie about it,” she asked him as the made their way back to the bustle of the home of the Inquisition. The soft crunch of packed snow under their feet was familiar as well, and her earlier anger receded.

“I do not believe he is being duplicitous. Even mages from Tevinter can see the danger in the Veil being torn apart. More dissent might come from the Imperium in the coming weeks, if we are able to tie the Magister to this cult his son spoke of,” Solas spoke in a level voice, his cadence thoughtful, “As for the magic itself, it is quite interesting if true. Experienced mages are intimately familiar with pulling their power from the Fade, altering the way the world around them in subtle ways. Pulling that power so violently that time itself is warped is incredibly dangerous.”

“Have you ever come across magic like that before?” she asked, “In your travels of the Fade, I mean.”

They climbed over the ridge leading into the training ground outside the village walls. The grunts of soldiers and clangs of clashing steel filled the air. Another familiar sound. Elain felt a surge of homesickness. 

“No, though I have seen memories of displays of power that were very similar. It always ends badly.”

“Why is that?” she pressed him as they walked into Haven itself.

“The cost is always very high. And the person who pays is never the one who sought out the power in the first place. Countless people have searched and grasped for as much power as they could, only to watch everyone around them suffer the price,” he said solemnly. 

“Do the people you saw in those memories regret it?” she asked him quietly. His observation hit too close to her heart for her comfort. She was suddenly very cold, and out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw dripping, inky blackness.She shuddered involuntarily, but continued to stare straight ahead as they made their way to her little room. 

“Sometimes,” he said, equally as quiet, “There are some who are happy that it was not them who had to pay the price. Some reaped the benefits of their ill-gained power with no regrets at all. But some felt the cost was too high, and they carried the weight of it their entire lives. Power is intoxicating and can ruin even the strongest of spirits, both inside the Fade and inside the hearts of people. It’s a rare soul that will relinquish the power to prevent the suffering.”

“Rare indeed,” her voice was barely above a whisper. 

They arrived in her little room and she walked to her desk and poured herself a cup of wine from a bottle that was now a permanent fixture in her surroundings. 

“Would you like some?” she offered him. He politely shook his head, and stood near the entrance of the room. 

“Do you believe you could relinquish power to save someone from pain?” he asked as she sat on the edge of her bed.

“That depends on who I am saving. And what kind of power it is. If the power is something that will greatly improve the lives of many by my gaining it, the pain someone else suffers could save many more from undue suffering. It would be irresponsible not to make the decision to improve lives in that case.”

“Hmph,” he nodded, his lips pursed in thought.

She smiled weakly at him, “Was that the wrong answer?”

He looked at her, his eyes betraying something bothering him, “There is no wrong answer. It is all a matter of perception.”

Her grin widened, “Well, was my perception correct then?”

Solas chuckled, “You are persistent. But yes, it is an entirely rational perception. And safe.”

Elain looked into the cup of wine she held in her hand and swirled it gently. The dark liquid slushed around, and the smell of blood and gold and the sweat on her naked skin lingered in her nose. She could almost see the maggots beginning to writhe in the the tin cup.

“You didn’t want ‘safe’; you want the truth,” she surmised, still staring into the cup, “I had power. I still do in some places. I gave up many, many things in order to obtain it. My own body and soul are marked from my trials. It was always my choice to earn it for myself. But someone suffered because of my choice.”

She took a deep breath and continued, “It haunts me. In my waking hours, when I sleep. I try to find answers in my own mind about how everything went so wrong, how my agreeing to sacrifice could mean the sacrifice would be someone else. The answers seem to be just out of my reach, though. Like motes of dust, flying in the air. I can see it, see it floating in front of my eyes, but when I reach out to grab the answers, to find that closure, it disappears, leaving me emptier than before.”

“I would relinquish that power in a moment if it undid what has been done. But I can’t. What’s been done cannot be undone. What has passed cannot be saved. I would give it up, but I can’t, and now I can only live with that regret,” she finished. 

Bringing the cup to her lips, she drained the wine. Her cheeks felt flushed, but her mind was still too sharp. She poured more of the liquid grace for herself. She expected him to say placating words out of pity or patronize her. Instead, Solas crossed the room, and sat in front of her, at her feet, looking up with eyes speaking of complete understanding. 

“That was not the answer I expected, but I am humbled nonetheless. Regret is a demon that eats away at hearts, leaving them cold and empty,” he spoke to her softly, “It would be a shame to see a heart as bright as yours succumb to it.”

“Regret may leave my heart empty, but the need to set things right fills it with purpose instead,” she assured him, “Don’t worry about me, Solas. I will weather this as I have weathered so many other things that would’ve broken stronger men.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he said with a small smile as he stood up again, “You are stubborn, Lavellan. But where others would see it as a fault, you proudly display it for the world to see.”

She shrugged her shoulders innocently and finished her cup of wine. Solas moved towards the door to leave, but turned before he exited into the bitter cold. 

“I know regret too. The pain does not lessen over time. I am sorry.”

He left her alone in her little room. The fire was stoked, burning high, but the chill was still in the air. It was always cold here. Always cold. She reached for the wine bottle, but instead of pouring it into a cup, she lifted it directly to her lips. The dry finish made her throat tingle, but she was desperate to feel warm. To feel whole.

To feel something. 


	4. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain confronts the Elder One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of character death. Some violence on par with the game itself.

The wooden doors of the Chantry slammed behind the group running towards the defensible position that lie in its wooden walls. They had saved all that they could, and now Elain pointed Cassandra towards the milling crowds as Vivienne and Solas awaited her instructions as well.

It was chaos. Chantry sisters were crying softly, villagers searched frantically for loved ones amongst the crowd, and Commander Cullen barked orders to every soldier and agent within earshot. Elain had never seen such disorganization, such disarray, such unpreparedness. Haven was under attack, and the Inquisition was falling apart at the seams. Iron Bull had been right about the need for central leadership, but it was far too late now. This was the beginning of the end. And yet, Elain felt strangely calm. Full of purpose.

She had seen him. The Elder One. Her Prey. 

Her fingers stroked the halla charm that she wore around her neck idly as she waited for Cassandra.

_“A chantry cleric found it under a large amount of rubble,” Cassandra had explained as she handed Elain the onyx charm, “The leg of the deer was broken off and could not be recovered.”_

__

__

“And...the body?” she had managed to whisper as she took the halla in reverent hands.

Cassandra had looked away, pensive, but turned back again. Her face was knotted in discomfort. Elain breathed slowly as she waited, attempting to steel herself for the answer.

“Crushed and burned beyond recognition. There is little left to bury,” she had spoken softly. 

The truth slammed into her like the fist of a Elgar’nan; a hard, merciless thing.’Little left to bury’. In a moment of weakness, a choked sob escaped her lips as the description of him sank into her heart.. She threw her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying. It was an unjust end. Unjust and cruel. 

_“Thank you,” she had said when she regained control. Despite the pain, she appreciated the truth. She forced herself to look at the Breach; the swirling void in the sky that threatened to swallow the world months ago, now closed by her own hand. She would not stop until she found who did this to her. To him._

Her finger ran across the jagged edge of the broken leg of the onyx halla. It hung around her neck now with her ivory one; a physical reminder of what this Elder One cost her. She vowed he would not live to see the dawn.

“Herald. Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us,” Cullen strode up to her with Cassandra, desperation written on his face. 

“I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade. But it looked like that,” the strange human boy who warned them of the attack cut in. He squatted next to Roderick, hand gently placed over the wound in his gut.

“I don’t care what it looked like, it’s cut a path for that army.They’ll kill everyone in Haven!” Cullen snapped back at him. 

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald,” the boy responded simply.

She pulled her bow from her back and checked the clasps on her armor, “That’s exactly what he’ll get.”

Solas sighed behind her, but it was Vivienne who spoke up.

“As honorable as self-sacrifice is, darling, we cannot afford to lose you while the rest of the village waits here to die. There must be some plan we can come up with, Commander?”

Cullen shook his head aggressively and he paced in front of Elain, “There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide…”

“There’s no where else to go, Cullen. Haven would be buried,” she said, tightening her grip on her bow. 

“We’re dying….but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice,” he wouldn’t meet her eye. She understood immediately, but knew better to accept the doom of hundreds of people so casually. 

“I won’t let all these people starve or freeze under a mountain. There must be some way out,” she stated, running her finger down her bowstring. 

“There is a path…” Roderick mumbled from the floor, the phantom of death clinging to his voice, “The pilgrim’s path. I took it on a whim one summer...to think it could save us now…”

She cocked her eyebrow and turned to face him, “A path?”

“Through the mountains,” he answered, a rattling sound coming from his chest, “I walked it on a whim...a whim...if it’s what saves us now...maybe you are…”

Elain did not hear the rest of what he had to say. She knew enough. Her resolve was set. This was her out. The villagers and soldiers could escape while she faced her Prey. She reached around to her quiver to count her arrows with her fingertips.

“Cullen, have him lead everyone to the path. I’ll hit the trebuchets again while you do. If Cole is right, this Elder One will be distracted enough by my presence that you should have time to get out.”

“Herald..” he looked at her with pity, and she hated him for it. It was her choice. The first she had made for herself since the Conclave.

“Maybe you’ll surprise it. Maybe you will make it out,” he stuttered, but he knew the truth as well as her. When she didn’t respond, he closed his eyes slowly and turned to give instructions to the frightened mass of people congregated in the chantry. 

“You’re doing the right thing, my dear,” Vivienne touched her shoulder lightly, assuring her with a gentle voice, “But do try to come back to us alive. It would be a pity to lose such a promising leader.”

“A profound pity,” Solas agreed, his voice quiet. She nodded to them both, her lips pursed. There was no more time to waste. 

“You. Soldier,’ she called to a young man standing near the door as she made her way there. He looked up at her, and she could tell by his wide eyes that he was afraid.

“Give me your weapon,” she commanded, pointing towards the hand axe at his waist. His mouth fell ajar, but he obeyed, fumbling to take the axe from its leather sheath. 

She grabbed it from his hand and slid it into her belt without even acknowledging him. If she succeeded, it wouldn’t matter. If she failed, it wouldn’t matter. All that mattered was her bow burying an arrow into the heart of the creature that caused this.

As she re-entered the night air of Haven, the glowing embers of the burning village floated on the cold wind and brought with them the stench of death. The entire place permeated death. There was nothing in Haven for her but death. Burning and crushing death. She walked openly to the trebuchets, hoping to draw attention to herself and away from the escaping villagers and troops. 

A group of templars congregated near the choke point at the trebuchet. Shock troops, and little else. They were no better than mindless beasts, poisoned by the red lyrium. There was no obvious leadership among them, and Elain decided to engage rather than evade. The more of a show she made it, the more likely that dragon would catch her scent. 

Two came at her at once, but she made quick work of them with her bow. The third closed in on her, making it harder to draw the third arrow. He swung a blood-stained sword, and bright eyes peered at her through the spaces in his helmet, desperation and need seeping through. They were red -- redder than any eyes should be -- and she rolled to evade him. His sword hit the ground, giving her ample time to redraw and fire into his neck. He let out a guttural growl before falling onto his knees and sinking into the cold, hard ground. Another death in this place.

Another death closer to her Prey.

The way to the trebuchets was cleared,and she ran to the mechanism to aim it. She yanked it with all her strength, eyeballing the area on the mountains right above the village. If the aim was right, she’d have very little time to escape. The chances of her survival were low. She didn’t care. She resigned herself to death, and thought the embrace of the Beyond would be so much warmer than this place. 

A low groaning came from behind her, and she suspected another group of templars had found her. When she turned to face them though, all she saw was a monster.

Tall and mutilated, red lyrium growing out of its very form, this creature shambled towards her, it’s yellowed teeth snarling. The glow of the lyrium reminded her of something familiar and strange at the same time, and as she saw inky black smoke swirl around the jutting crystals, she was awakened to something she always thought had been her imagination. 

Glowing red, inky black, and supernatural strength, as she came to find when the creature slammed its deformed fist on the ground next to her. She avoided the hit, but was knocked off balance momentarily. It was like the visions in the mountains. Like the fevered dreams she still saw. Dripping blackness, glowing red, writhing death. 

The creature came after her again, this time with a speed that surprised her. She ducked and rolled under its underdeveloped legs, landing on the other side of it, its back facing her. Her bow in hand, she drew and released her arrow, the speeding projectile hitting the exposed back. It yelped, but the arrow gave away her position, and it swung its clubbed hand wide. 

Her body flew at the force of the hit, slamming into the ground and rolling roughly from the impact. She felt her shoulder crack, and as she tried to lift herself, the weight pressed against it sent a jolt of pain up her neck, down her spine, and across her chest. It was broken. The creature huffed and came running at her again. Her bow had been knocked out of her hand, and she crawled as fast as she could to grab it. It was not fast enough, and the creature grabbed her by the ankle, swinging her across the snowy clearing.  
Thinking quickly, she yanked the hand axe out of her belt, and swung at the creature’s weaker legs. She ripped through a tendon with the axe, and the creature screamed as its leg gave out underneath it. It dropped her, and she wasted no time in slamming the small axe into every weak spot she could find. Tearing apart its legs, ripping open its neck, smashing into the grotesque face. She swore that maggots spilled out of the mouth, but she knew immediately it was just another vision. 

She didn’t have time to dwell, didn’t have time to wait for the maggots to recede. She stood and limped towards the trebuchet. Aiming went much slower with her broken shoulder, and the sharp pain ate away at her. When the mechanism clicked as it reached the last notch on the aiming axis, she leaned against the base of the trebuchet to wait. She was out of breath and weak, but she had no choice to face the Elder One like this. Despair washed over her as she realized that she may die, her revenge unfulfilled. 

She did not have long to dwell on her imminent death or her failure to destroy what caused such callous destruction in her soul. The rumbling cry of the dragon echoed through the skies, and it approached the clearing on dark wings. She watched in awe as it landed, roaring at her as she straightened herself. Its teeth were as large as her arm, and its skin was decayed and black. Corruption and the stink of death wafted from its rancid breath, but Elain still thought it was a magnificent creature. Built to kill, the apex hunter of the world. That kind of power was to be respected.

The dragon’s clawed feet stepped on the bloody mess of the red lyrium creature, and the corpse made a gruesome crunch under the dragon’s claws as it continued its approach towards her. She grimaced and turned her head.

And she saw someone...something else approaching as well. Through the brightly burning fires of the dragon’s wrath, the Elder One walked towards her. 

He was tall as well. Far taller than a human, even a qunari. And his features were distorted and punctured by corruption, just like the dragon. This was the creature that took everything from her. Took her life, her Freedom. Took things that she had worked for, things she had treasured, things she loved. She wrapped her hand around the onyx halla on her throat as this Elder One drew near.

“Enough, pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more,” the Elder One barked at her, his warped shemlen face clear now. He was obviously blighted, but other than that, she had no idea what he was. She really didn’t care. He would be dead soon enough, if Elain had her way.

“I’m not afraid of you, creature,” the axe she held swayed in her hand as she grounded herself in her stance. He was larger than she anticipated, but not unreachable. 

“Words mortals often hurl at the darkness,” he responded, “Once they were mine. They are always lies.”

She ground her teeth together. He was arrogant, still predictably human, despite his appearances. She would use it against him. 

“Know me. Know what you have pretended to be,” he glared down on her, his opinion on his innate authority clear, “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.”

And now she had a name. A name she would curse to the end of her days. A name she will curse in the Beyond. A name that she will wrap tightly on her tongue and pierce with sharp words over and over until it means nothing but humiliating defeat. 

A jagged, unnaturally long finger on his hand pointed towards her, “You will kneel.”

Elain was all too familiar with humans waving their power and pride in her face. She grinned up at him.

“No. I will not.”

He frowned at her expression of defiance, but thought better for it. Instead of responding, he pulled out a round, intricately decorated object. It was gold, but glowed with the same red and black magic that she had seen on the templars, on the red lyrium, in her worst dreams. ”I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

The shining red light erupted from his hand, and the mark on her own began to pulsate wildly. It was as if the power was pulling the mark out of her. The broken shoulder sent excruciating pain shooting up her arm as this Corypheus magically yanked on her very essence, pulling her entire body with it. She tried to fight against it, the pain being no match for her will to not give in. Her free hand went to her wrist, and she tried desperately to pull back.

“This is your fault, ‘Herald’,” he snarled at her, the power he used flaring in his hand, “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning. And instead of dying, you stole its power. I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched -- what you flail at the rifts -- I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

The immense power coursing through her arm made her legs weak, making her feel as if this creature would bring her to her knees. She focused on resisting, on stopping him from having that satisfaction. The dragon prowled menacingly behind her, trapping her. There was nowhere to go, nothing that could be done.. Still, she fought it with her entire being. She would give him no quarter. And no mercy.

“And you used the anchor to undo my work,” he continued, but the magic itself began to loosen, “The gall.”

The pain began to recede, and Elain found her voice. She would not let him control this conversation.

“What was the point of this?” she asked through gritted teeth. 

His magic fell back, and she felt it leave her like a heavy weight had been lifted. She went to rise on her shaking legs, but was caught off guard when Corypheus yanked her up by her arm, dangling her in front of his face. He was so close she could smell his rancid breath, see the marks of decay written in his pores. She swung under his strength helplessly, and scowled at her defeat.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers,” he explained to her, the stench of the hot air escaping his mouth making her sick, “For a thousand years I was confused. No more.”

Her whole body ached. The pain was making her faint, and she knew she would not win -- or survive -- a fight with him. The only hope was to keep him talking, make sure the villagers and soldiers escaped, then try to bury Haven. It was a longshot, but she would not let herself be defeated here. No one else would take Corypheus’ death from her. No one. 

“I have gathered the will the return under no name but my own. To champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world,” he droned on, thinking she was a captivated audience, “Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.”

He tossed her, and she slammed into the waiting trebuchet. The fall knocked her head, making her vision swim. The pain was intense, the sickness overwhelming, but her need to survive drove her now. All this Corypheus had was bluster and arrogance, and it enraged her that this corrupted beast had fumbled into destroying her life. She stood up with great effort, and looked up to face him. His death would be by her hands alone.

“The anchor is permanent. You have spoilt it with your stumbling. So be it. I will begin again. I will find another way to give this nation and world the god it requires,” the needless patronizing continued, and she almost laughed at his obliviousness.

The sky behind him lit up suddenly, catching her eye. A signal. Cullen must have gotten them to safety and wanted to warn her. It was time to put her plan into action. She was tired of listening to this Corypheus anyways.

“And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die,” he made another threat as he reached out those claw-like hands towards her.

She picked up the axe quickly from the ground, “Your arrogance blinds you. I will remember that.”

He looked at her in confusion, his brow furrowed and nose scrunched.

“The next time we meet, I will kill you,” she proclaimed before bringing the axe down on the tension rope of the trebuchet.

The trebuchet launched its ammo right into the peaks overlooking the village, hitting it with deadly accuracy. Both the dragon and Corypheus watched the damage with the dawning realization that she had been stalling them. While they were distracted, Elain ran. She ran faster than she had ever run in her life. As fast as she could go. She heard rather than saw the dragon take flight, most likely taking Corypheus with it. 

Elain didn’t stop. The rumbling of the ground mean the snow was coming, and it would bury her if she didn’t make it to the passage. Her lungs burned, her body hurt, and her soul cried out for justice. Her whole existence choked her in that moment, and as she plummeted down into the hidden passage to escape the avalanche, she cursed all of her gods for letting this happen to her. 

She was chosen. She was sanctified. She was uplifted. 

And now blackness swallowed her, and she didn’t know if she would ever be able to emerge.


	5. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain wakes from the attack on Haven and finds she's not alone.

The cold woke her up. It was bitter and biting, sinking into her wet cheeks and hair and clothes. The armor froze to the clothe, burning and tearing her skin as she tried to move. Her whole body felt sharp and numb at the same time; sharp from her battle with Corypheus, numb from the cold itself. She rolled over and was reminded by a jolting shot of pain up her arm and back of her broken shoulder. Her teeth chattered and she didn’t know if she could walk, but she had to try.

One foot on the ground, balancing on her knee, she pushed herself up. Her legs were unsteady, and she felt like a child trying to gain her balance. The act of standing made her dizzy, and she fumbled, forcing her to catch herself by throwing her hands towards the wall next to her. More pain from her arm, and new pains in her legs. The fall must have been longer than she thought.

Elain looked upwards, but everything was now destroyed from the heavy weight of the snow above her. She was immensely lucky she even made it out alive. Realizing how close she had come to losing the chance for revenge, she breathed a prayer to her Goddess for delivering her. Haven was destroyed, buried, but she still lived. It was enough, for the moment.

It was too cold to stay in the passage, and her only chance of surviving in these mountains was to catch up with the survivors of Haven. She didn’t know how long she was knocked out, but hopefully one person moving on foot would be faster than the large group that escaped. She said another prayer to the Mother of Hares, knowing she would be entering Her domain if she reached the isolated paths of the Frostbacks. Unbidden Wilderness, where spirits and gods roamed freely, waiting to touch the living.

She was not looking forward to it. 

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off the wall, and began to walk. The long corridor of the abandoned mine was narrow and caked in ice. Sheets of it clung to the walls, and shafts of moonlight made the cave glisten in the dark. At least she could see. There was some comfort that she wouldn’t be forced to find her way in pitch blackness.

The trek was slow, her entire body trembling from the pain and the cold. The moonlight got brighter though, and she could see a large room up ahead. She prayed it was an exit, some way out of here. Despite her apprehension in facing the Wilderness, this corridor wouldn’t lead her to the survivors. 

As she approached the large room, she was startled when she saw movement. She shouldn’t have been. Demons and spirits alike lived in these kinds of places, long lost to history. When the living had died and everything was all but forgotten, other things remembered. 

The other things she now faced were demons. Two of them, thankfully unaware of her presence. They shambled about, hooded cowls covering their more-than-likely grotesque features. She looked for a path around them, some way past them, but found none. The only thing she had to defend herself was the handaxe she had apprehended from the scared soldier in the Chantry, her bow long gone. Facing these creatures of despair in her current state would inevitably lead to her end. She felt panic creeping into her lungs, making it hard to breathe, and her heart raced at the thought of meeting her end here.

As her emotional state began to overwhelm her, the anchor on her hand flared sharply.But it felt strange.It was different than before. Corypheus trying to remove it must have done something. The sharpness was now acute and magnetic, as if it was tugging against some wall. She lifted her hand and stared at it. Not pulling against a wall. Pulling the wall itself. And the wall was giving way.

It was the Veil. 

Her eyes widened at the realization. She was feeling the actual barrier between this world and the Beyond. The wall itself she felt was non-corporeal and vibrated and moved, fluctuating. It was like a thin piece of cloth blowing in the wind. She finally understood what her brother meant all those times he mentioned feeling how thin the Veil was in the ruined temples of their People. It was physical and visceral, and she began to feel the stirrings of empowerment. 

A half-cooked plan began to whirl like smoke in her mind, and in her desperation, she decided she had to try. She threw her hand up, aiming it towards the weakest part she felt in the wall, and pulled it with the mark. The same sensation of magical energy she felt when Corypheus used that strange artifact on her returned, but this time, she felt as if she could control it. The Veil gave way, pulling back, opening up by her command. 

The demons felt it as well, and her location was given away, They immediately turned to face her, revealing their twisted mouths and shrieking cries. Once they saw her, she stopped using the mark to pull, and began to push. She pushed with all her might. The Veil warped, going concave, creating a vacuum. To her relief, it had an outstanding effect on the demons.She felt tendrils of the same type of energy in her hand gripping the demons, tearing them apart, breaking them into their most basic form as the Veil twisted by her command. They fought against it, but their power was merely a whisper compared to what she felt. 

Elain cackled loudly as their bodies began to dissolve and fall back into the Beyond. Her lungs ached and her body ached and her mind swam, but this power...it was incredible. An accident had given her the ability to seal the rifts, and Corypheus’ ignorance had amplified the anchor even further. In all his arrogance, he had failed to foresee that he could give Elain the means undo all his blundering. And the means to do much more. 

The taste of power was sweet on her tongue, but the strength of her new ability was short-lived. The Veil snapped back and sealed like the rifts, leaving it stronger than it was before she had used the anchor on it. The amount of strength she’d need to use the anchor regularly and for extended lengths of time would be astronomical. And yet, the prospect intrigued her. 

None of that would matter if she died in the cold, though. With new ideas and renewed purpose, she continued her slow walk to the Wilderness of the mountains.

\-----

By the time Elain had left the ice-covered passages in the mountains, the moon had gone, and a winter storm had come. 

Brutal winds whipped at her, making her have to lean into them to walk, putting even more strain on her already weak body. The mountain trail was nearly pitch black with not even embers from campfires to light her way. There were some trails left by the refugees -- abandoned items and broken axles sticking out of the snow like an old bone -- but the storm was burying them fast. Faster than she could keep up. 

Elain couldn’t help but be reminded of her last Trial, done nearly nine years ago. The blistering cold that penetrated to her soul, the helplessness, the isolation...it all returned to her in force. She had hoped never to be this alone again, but was not surprised that it came to pass. This was what it meant to serve. What it meant to be Maiden. 

But she wasn’t Maiden here. She was Herald of Andraste, an agent of a Chantry organization. Part of an institution that had subjugated and drove her people from their homeland and hunted them as they wandered, their history and heritage lost. What she was before was outshined by what she was now. And yet, she doubted that whatever forces she felt and saw in the Vimmarks all those years ago would care.

What little optimism she had gained in the mountain passages had depleted in the Wilderness. She was too far behind the refugees now, and she knew in her bones that she would die on this pass. There would be no divine white hart to save her, no interventions from the gods; real or imagined. Elain had used up all her goodwill in the long years after, filled with broken oaths and broken dreams. 

As she walked for hours in sheets of snow, despondent over her impending death, more than just the isolation and helplessness of her Trial came to her. 

Soft voices pressed against her numb ears, buzzing low like tiny insects. At first she believed it was caused by the howling wind, but she started to recognize words, sentences. They were in a language long dead, one her ancestors spoke, but bits and pieces came through that she understood. Whispers spoke to her of coming home, of receiving her due, of enduring. Broken phrases, interspersed with biting criticism, burning her brain like the icy wind burned her face. _More dead because of you.Your existence is nothing but death for everyone around you._ _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen.The dark hearts cannot cast shadows, Maiden.You deserve to be alone. You deserve to die alone. Telanadas._

In her weakened state, she agreed with the whispers. This is what she deserved. Years of plotting and undermining and carefully consolidating power did nothing but benefit herself. And she knew it. Knew it all along. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to let go. Even after she suffered defeat in Haven, her top priority was finding a way to utilize the newfound power in the mark on her hand. She hadn’t even given a second thought to the new corpses that lay buried in a new frozen tomb underneath mountain. Had it ever occurred to her that they had families? Friends? Their own lives?

Of course it hadn’t. All she had thought about at the time was her own revenge. Every step of her life had been one conquest after another, and no draught of dominion would sate her. It was only right she died here, forgotten.The pervasive emptiness that wracked her mind for the past few months caught up with her. It was too much to bear anymore. Too much to carry. 

Elain fell to her knees, her weak legs giving out under the weight of her failures, and she sobbed. Her tears came hot and fast, soaking her face, freezing against her eyelashes, making tiny icicles appear in front of her eyes. She cried with her entire being. Her soul cried, her heart cried. She wailed into the darkness with no one to hear her pain but the snow and the wind. Her grief finally spilled over after all these long months of suppressing it, and it ran through her like a mighty river, taking her away in its current. 

_Let someone else take this from me,_ she silently pleaded, hoping someone, something would hear. _I don’t want it anymore. I can’t endure._ The quiet whispers became a hoarse cacophony of noise now, filling her head and mocking her for giving up. She slammed her fists against her ears to make them stop.

In her distress, she did not realize at first that the snow was moving underneath her, shifting and squirming. When she did feel it, horror washed over her. She did not need to open her eyes to know what was happening, but she did anyways. Maggots swarmed over the ground, as numerous as the flakes of snow, writhing and seeking out her flesh to eat with their tiny gnashing teeth. 

She screamed and fell backwards, trying to get away from the mass, but they were everywhere. They crawled over her body, in her scorched armor, already devouring her alive. Elain thrashed on the ground, trying to escape from their greedy little mouths. Each desperate move she made was followed by the audible crunching of their loathsome, segmented bodies, and her vision flashed with images of elf bodies being segmented and ritualistically torn apart, bones and sinew hanging from each piece. 

“No, no, no... Not like this,” she choked in fear to the empty night, panic gripping her.

She pushed herself off the ground and stood up, the need to be rid of the worms driving her beyond what her body was capable of at the moment. This is not how she would let it end. But as she looked ahead, trying to find some means of escape, there was no route of salvation waiting for her. There was only retribution standing ready, in the form of the Goddess Herself.

Her dragon’s teeth shone with an ominous red light in the darkness, and the inky blackness slinking between dripped into the white snow. Elain knew what those teeth were now; red lyrium. As were the scales on Her armor, but the jagged bones jutting out of Her pauldrons were still the bones of elves. How had her Goddess come into possession of the red lyrium? What was it? And why was She here now? Questions had been answered, but even more plagued her mind now. 

“It has been a long time, my Maiden,” Her voice boomed through the mountains, making the ground shake. The thunderous chorus of voices that escaped Her throat made Elain’s ears ring, and she gripped her head tightly as she stared at the apparition her mind had conjured.

“You’re not real,” she said weakly, her lip quivering. The Mother of Hares ignored her, and continued to take in her shaking form with Her glassy black eyes.

“Did you think you could hide from me?” She walked towards Elain’s cowering body, Her armored feet leaving heavy imprints in the snow. “Did you think to rise in fortune with these shemlen from the power I bestowed upon you?”

She stalked closer to Elain, Her mighty golden spear’s tip dragging in the snow, creating great clouds of hot steam and melting away any chill that it held. Elain shook her head violently, trying to make the vision disappear. The Goddess had never left the Black Forest, and she never dreamed of Her outside of that domain. 

“Do you still think you have a choice in the price, Maiden? Do you still wish to disregard your oaths for your own gain?” She was shouting now as She swiftly closed the distance between them. With a wave of Her terrifying arm, She brought the tip of Her spear to Elain’s throat, “ _Do you still believe I am not real!”_

The hot metal burned her, searing away her flesh, and Elain screamed in pain. She fell back onto the ground and felt the maggots’ gluttonous little bodies moving towards the open wound on her throat. It wasn’t how she wanted to die. 

“Please, please Mother! I didn’t know!” she cried out, panicked and grasping towards the towering form of the Goddess. She looked as if She would open Her gaping mouth and laugh at the request, but something caught Her sight and Her demeanor changed.

The anchor on Elain’s hand flared as she had reached for Her, and now the glowing green light cast an otherworldly reflection on Andruil’s glassy eyes. The brow on the Goddess furrowed, and a look of understanding crossed Her face. She reached Her own hand out, as if to touch the anchor that Elain had so recently coveted more power from, but recoiled back, Her face apprehensive. 

“The key…” She said quietly, Her voice now more subdued. The chorus had become a whisper, and a true tone rang through. It was a tone of awe and fear. 

With a flick of Her wrist, the devouring maggots evaporated and the throat wound disappeared, leaving Elain panting in the snow, her stomach turning from desperation. She vomited on the ground, her guts expelling the consuming fear that still ate at her, and the Goddess scoffed.

“You are weak. And ignorant of the power you possess. You are not fit to serve Me in all My Glory,” She spit at Elain, but before She could say anything else, a cry from a lone wolf interrupted her. 

The howl was plaintive and long, as if the wolf was searching. Andruil’s head turned in the direction of the sound, and She sniffed the air. She was searching too. The Great Huntress smelled prey, and Her hand tensed against her golden spear. Elain’s heart beat rapidly as she waited for the Goddess to turn Her Fury back on her, but when She looked at her again, She grinned widely.

“Perhaps I still have use for you, Maiden,” She said as her mouth split to her ears, revealing every conical tooth inside, “I have many dues to collect for your insolence, but you can still serve My Will.”

Without giving her a chance to speak, the Goddess plucked Elain off the ground, pulled her to her chest, and crushed her against the lyrium scales of Her armor. It burned hot, and it whispered, and Elain trembled in fear. The Goddess’ magic swirled and pooled around them, and Elain felt herself become...lighter. As if all he weight she had been carrying had been lifted. When she looked down on her body, she saw why: they had both dissipated in the magic. She was nothing but the flowing inky blackness now, churning and floating like smoke, and they moved across the mountain path with lightening speed. 

The Goddess dropped her on the ground unceremoniously and Elain felt her weight come crashing back. Andruil reformed before her as well, much more gracefully, and squatted down on the ground next to her.

“Go,” she pointed her cleft chin in the direction of a chasm where she could see the glow of campfires beyond, “Your followers await.”

Elain stared at Her wide-eyed and confused, unable to process what had happened. 

“Do not forget all that I have told you, Maiden,” She said as She began to dissolve to the inky magic again, “Your People have such a short memory, after all.”

And then She was gone. 

No thoughts would form in Elain’s head anymore. She couldn’t reflect, couldn’t dwell, couldn’t think. All she could do was propel her dying body towards the warm embers glowing in the crevice ahead of her, and everything else was secondary. The only thing left was the need to survive. 

She rushed on shambling legs, like a wounded beast, nearly reaching the bright light that would lead her to safety, but she was too weak. Too far gone. The trail of blood flowing from her onto the snow now pooled at her feet, and with no energy left, Elain groaned and collapsed onto the ground.

There was the vague presence of voices and movement, but her vision was already dark. Unconsciousness creeped over her, and the last thing she saw was her own black-tipped fingers pressed against the white snow. 


	6. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain settles in Skyhold, but finds herself struggling with the old demons.

“Skyhold”, it was called. A fortress deep in the Frostbacks, impenetrable even in its dilapidated state. The towering walls looked over a vast chasm, and the snowy peaks of the mountains glittered on the clear, sunny day. Elain stood on her balcony in the fortress, overlooking the scurrying work being done below her. Runners were rushing back and forth, carrying messages between her advisors. Soldiers trained in the yard, blades colliding loudly, their grunts bouncing off the ancient stone walls. The smell of baking bread wafted on the wind, and Elain inhaled deeply.

It was like a prison. She felt her old self being further and further suppressed. It didn’t matter to these humans what she had been. They explained it away with Andraste elevating this wildling elf child to her chosen one as a way to absolve them from how poorly they treated her people. As she watched the elven servants moving in and out of her quarters, -- cleaning, arranging, scrubbing -- she knew that nothing had changed, despite her new position.

Inquisitor.

The title meant nothing to her. Less than nothing. It was an empty promise of power that she did not earn and did not covet. It wasn’t like being the Maiden. As Maiden, her power was palpable, real. She would say jump, and her hunters did her bidding without question. She would mention offhand the skill of an apprentice, and they would be elevated under the best lead hunters. She would need information on nearby bandit camps, and her Shadow would happily extract whatever she wanted from captured raiders for her. Her word was taken with the weight of a ruler, a leader. A scion among her people.

Being Inquisitor seemed like nothing more than a figurehead who pointed towards the best solution to maintain the status quo. Stabilize the chantry, stabilize the nobility, stabilize the military, stable stable stable. They cannot veer too far from the beaten path, lest rumors of a return of the older order start to trickle in. Everything had to be handled with delicate hands, and it left Elain with very little power to change anything.

All she was now was the mark on her hand and a person to insert the narrative into. She was aware of this when she accepted the title. It didn’t matter ultimately. What mattered was that she was able to face Corypheus again. And kill him.

Her hands dug into the masonry of her balcony, and she leaned into the hard stone. She let out a deep sigh, and stared beyond the peaks of the mountains.

The alternative to this prison was the untamed Wilderness. What had so long been her home, her life, now held sinister phantoms that followed her into her nightmares. Before, it was merely part of wearing the Mantle. A burden all Maidens had to bear. She and Old Bida had spoke of it in length after a time, sharing the ways the Trials had touched their minds, forever changing them. But this fear was new. She had not believed she was visited by the Goddess in her visions at any point. They were visions, no matter how real they had seemed at the time.

Yet, her chest was still healing from the scale-shaped burns she received on the night she thought she would die. Visions or no, it was real enough to her now to be afraid. The realms of the gods were not to be approached without extreme caution. Extreme devotion. And Elain did not believe she would be welcome there anymore. 

“There you are, Inquisitor. I have been looking for you all morning.”

Vivienne’s voice startled her out of her thoughts, and her fingernails scraped the rough stone as she jumped at the sound. 

“Are you alright?”

Elain rolled her shoulders and nodded her head before backing away from the balcony, “Fine. Just thinking.”

“About your new role? That should be first and foremost on your mind, of course,” the first enchanter mused. 

“Oh?” she asked as she made her way back into her quarters, “And why should that be at the forefront of my thoughts?”

“Because there is much to be done, my dear, and you are the only one who can do it now,” she responded as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand. Vivienne’s self-assurance was admirable, even if her politics were far too Chantry-centric for her tastes. 

Elain strode across her room, passing the lavish stained-glass windows and hand-stitched hangings, and reached for the cup holding her wine on her desk. She leaned against the dark oak desk and rocked her wrist, stirring the liquid inside. The pungent aroma of the fermented fruit struck her nose, and she felt a thirst stirring deep inside of her. It made her throat go dry immediately, as if she had walked through a desert. She brought the cup to her lips and drank deeply. The dry bite of the wine felt like paradise, and the gentle lull of somnolence washed over her.

Vivenne watched her with interest, and her perfectly plucked eyebrow rose ever so slightly. 

“Far be it for me to judge someone who enjoys a nice vintage, but darling, it isn’t even mid-day,” her tone was light, but her eyes were discerning, “You should be having that drink with a meal. It will prevent a flush from creeping into those lovely cheeks of yours.” She snapped her fingers and grabbed the attention of a nearby servant. 

“Be a dear and bring the Inquisitor some food. She needs to keep her strength up to heal,” she requested. 

The servant -- an elven girl with a dirty apron and dirty hair -- looked at her with wide eyes and quickly removed herself from the room to abide the request. Elain felt her guts pulling inside of her. She was unused to seeing elves submit so easily to the commands of humans, and it made her uncomfortable. 

“That wasn’t necessary, Vivienne. I can get my own food,” she told her sternly, knowing that the First Enchanter thought this was as normal as mages being locked away for their own safety. What sheltered lives these shemlen led. 

“I know you are perfectly capable, Inquisitor, but you are also incredibly busy,” Vivienne motioned towards the piles of reports on her desk, “Having a servant do what you have no time for is nothing to be ashamed of. They are skilled workers who are compensated for doing the tasks you cannot do.”

“They are people living in poverty and slums, offering up their lives for the scraps your society throws them,” Elain argued, taking another drink of her wine, “If they are so skilled and so vital, why are they treated like dust beneath your feet?”

Vivienne tilted her head slightly, and a smile curled onto her mouth, “You are not impressed with how human society treats their servants?”

“Not in the least bit,” she responded, as she pulled out her chair to sit down and work on her reports. The matter sitting on top was a requisition request for lyrium supplies from some of Leliana’s people. 

“Then change it.”

Elain picked up her quill to write instructions on the request order, and gave the mage a short bark of laughter.

“Change it? Just like that? Change centuries of oppression of my people with just a wave of my hand,” Elain scribbled her signature and moved her first order aside. The next was a report from a scout in the Fallow Mire regarding missing soldiers. 

“Nothing worth changing is ever easy, my dear Inquisitor, but that does not mean we should not try,” Vivenne sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk with a grace that made Elain slightly jealous. 

“When the elves try to change things, the arm of the Chantry usually comes down on the ‘heathens’ and wipes them out with a thoroughness that is astounding. What makes you think I could do differently?” she asked her absently now as she read over the Fallow Mire report. 

“The Chantry is weakened. The faithful turn to you now for answers that the Chantry cannot give. With tactful planning and cultivating the right alliances, you could do much more for your people as Inquisitor than you ever could as just another elf among the Dalish,” Vivienne explained.

“And what makes you think the faithful would still be faithful after seeing me champion for the elves?”

The mage’s phantom of a smile turned into a tight grin, and she leaned slightly onto the desk, “Because you and I both know that the faithful are little more than sheep in need of shepherding. The right words, the right actions, and the right leader could uproot the very roots of the Chantry doctrine and make it into something new. Something that gave more power to those who have been barred from the Chantry for far too long.”

Elain glanced up at her from her work, “Of course, leaving you in a stronger position to influence the sheep, I assume.”

Vivienne rested her chin on her hand, and spoke in a purr,”If the elves are accepted by the Chantry as fully recognized individuals who deserve respect, then the same courtesy can be extended to mages. Aren’t you the one who suggested to me in Haven that mages shouldn’t be kept out of the Chantry?”

The smile Vivienne had been harboring now spread to Elain as she realized the First Enchanter’s intentions. It wasn’t about the plight of the mages or the elves or even the Maker with her; it was about the power she could gain from it. Something Elain was all too familiar with.

“Indeed I did, Madame de Fer. I had no idea you would find it so...intriguing at the time,” she answered.

“Oh but I did, my dear. I found it quite intriguing. I also find myself in a position where shepherding the faithful would be a skill that someone championing for the rights of elves might be able to use to its fullest capabilities.”

The clenching in her stomach receded, and Elain found herself warming to the mage. She appreciated her forthrightness with her plotting, and understood that Vivienne didn’t need to hide her true plans; she laid them out bare for those who were perceptive enough to understand her. She hastily signed the Fallow Mire report, and set it on top of the pile. The next one was an inventory of the items the Inquisition had received for an operation in Nevarra.

“Have I told you that I am a great admirer of mutual cooperation that benefits all parties involved? I find it much easier than trying to force a square peg through a round hole,” Elain said in a non-descript tone, taking a cue from her father’s demeanor, “And you are correct. Anything that makes lives easier is not something we should be ashamed of.”

Vivenne leaned back into her chair, setting her hands back down on her lap, “I’m thrilled we share an understanding of the machinations of the world. Mutually beneficial acts are always the best course to take when the stakes are so high.”

They were interrupted by the elven servant returning with a plate of food. She nervously set it down on the edge of Elain’s desk, and bowed at the waist to her, with her fingers tangled in her dirty apron.

“Thank you, Sylani,” Elain smiled at the young woman, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Your daughter must be missing you terribly. Do not worry about your pay. I will see to it.”

Her eyes brightened up, and the hands untangled themselves and clapped together in excitement.

“T-Thank you, your Grace!” the elf managed to stammer out. She bowed again, still nervous, and shuffled out of the room with haste.

“You will spoil her and she’ll come to expect that kindness all the time,” Vivienne commented.

“Good. She should expect kindness. She is a new mother with a baby being raised by a younger sister while she scrubs her hands to the bone,” Elain said tartly, “She will be one of the first to benefit from my new implementations.”

“I see you have plans already in motion to shepherd the lost flock. You are more ambitious than I expected,” Vivienne observed.

“We Dalish are not the savages your Chantry makes us out to be. I am intimately familiar with working a system in my favor,” she before she drained the rest of her wine.

“Interesting,” was all the mage replied with.

Elain set down her empty cup and looked to the food Sylvani had brought her. Cold pieces of shredded duck, a crust of bread, and three figs swimming in honey tempted her on the plate, and she reached to grab one of the delectable morsels. But the figs began to move. Something pressed against the insides of the fruit, making the skin stretch and retract and bubble up. The movement was constant and irregular, and it made her blood run cold. Elain swallowed deeply and grabbed the plate, placing it in front of her, watching the fruit move of its own volition. She felt her breath come more rapid now, edging out of her nostrils forcefully.

“Is something wrong with your food, dear?”

The skin of the fig erupted, spilling maggots out from the inside. Hundreds of their corpulent bodies wriggled their way onto the food on her plate and onto the wooden surface of her desk. She gasped and pushed herself back against her chair, propelling her body away from the swarm that now covered her work. 

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne asked, concern rising in her voice.

“I’m fine,” Elain gasped out as she stood up, moving across the room towards the fresh air of her balcony, “Just feeling a little nauseous. I’m not used to the strength of human wine, it seems.”

“Which is why you should eat anyways,” she chastised as she stood up from her chair, “I will take my leave. I enjoyed our little talk. We should make the time to chat more often.”

She left the room in a bustle of flowing fabric, leaving the scent of her elaborate perfumes in the air behind her. Her departure barely registered with Elain. She leaned against the frame of the door leading to her balcony, and cradled the hand with the anchor into her chest. 

It didn’t make sense. The Veil here was strong. Many mages had mentioned it when they arrived. She could even feel it in the mark. How could having a simple conversation as she was working cause a strong enough emotional response that the Fade started to bleed through? 

Unless it wasn’t the Fade. Perhaps it was all her own mind; a “gift” from her Goddess. It was not a thought she wanted to entertain. She looked at the plate on the desk again but there were no more maggots. Just food now, waiting to be eaten. She shuddered. The magic at play here was beyond her comprehension, and she didn’t want to sit in the dark, ignorant of her own body. 

She needed to talk to Solas. 

\-------

“They’re beautiful,” she said with awe, her head tilted upwards to gaze at every detail in the frescoes, “Where did you learn how to do this?” 

Solas looked up from his writing and to answer her, “Where I learn everything.”

She turned and shot him an incredulous look. He somehow knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer. 

“The Fade. Of course,” she put her hands behind her back and walked to his desk now, “Did the spirits in the Fade give you the supplies and time and space to practice this art in your waking hours as well?”

Lavellan was often too perceptive. For every answer he had for her questions, there was a doubting rebuttal slipping past her lips. A pointed argument, an irritated reply, and on a rare occasion, a smiling jest would pour from her mouth like the sweetest nectar, a quenching draught for something he had thought he had lost. It had been far too long since he had conversed with someone who was as confident and quick as her, and each conversation they had was a gift. Even the discussions where she passionately defended her people endeared him to her. This Dalish woman was everything he had missed while he slept, and everything that was missing from him. 

“Not directly, no,” he answered her, a smile crossing his face, “But I had seen enough to recreate the techniques over several years when I had the opportunity.Most of the practice was performed in the Fade.”

“Strange,” she said simply as she lifted herself up to sit on his desk. Her eyes wandered back to the murals.

“How so?” he asked her, closing the book he was working with. He wanted to focus on every word she said.

“From what I understand, the Beyond is far different from this world. A painting there would be done much differently than a painting here. Didn’t you explain to that spirit in Old Crestwood of how this world is heavy, but where the change can take place?”

“I did,” he responded, curious of her train of thought.

“If that is the case, then the spirits re-creating and playing out the memory in the Fade would be far different than the feel of the weight of the brush in your hand; the coordination of your arm, the keenness of your eyes. These would all be far more speculative in the Fade, and more substantive here. The physical force of mixing the water and the pigments and the plaster would have a solidness that I don’t believe would be possible in the Fade.”

“For the most part, yes, that is correct,” his mind raced at where she was going. He was embarrassed to find his heart racing as well.

“Then tell me again how you managed to master an art that is nearly dead among our people, without the tools and resources necessary to create it in this world?”

He would give her credit: nothing slipped past her. Every piece of knowledge he so happily gave away was stored inside her mind for use at a later time. Even now, she merely looked at the mural of the Breach with a lightness that understated her decimation of every detail. He felt a clenching in his chest.

“In normal circumstances, that would be the case. However, you forget that I have depth of control over my travels in the Fade that most mages do not,” he replied. 

It was a perfectly good response that many would be satisfied with, but he saw her bite her lip and furrow her brow. Lavellan was not the type to be satisfied, it seemed.

“I know you are withholding from me, but I won’t press you,” she said quietly. She turned her head to face him, and her hair made soft music as the many beads and ornaments weaved into the thick mass clicked against each other at the movement. The subtle glow of the lamps in the room made her skin glow, as if it were lit from within, and for a moment, he was struck by her beauty. Discerning gray eyes, darkly stained lips that revealed a charismatic smile if the moment was right, and a nose that dominated her face, but only added to her charm. 

He cleared his throat, “If that’s what you wish to believe, then so be it. I have picked up a wealth of knowledge in my travels, and this,” he gestured to the murals, “is one that I thought was important enough to preserve.”

“You’re right to think that,” she said, and leaned back on the desk, putting her weight on her hands. The topic was dropped, and he was glad.

“I did come to talk to you about something,” she confessed as she motioned with her chin for him to come closer to her. He pushed out his chair and walked around the other side of the desk, leaning against it next to her. It was wrong of him to allow himself to get this close, but everything about her drew him out. He was a moth to her flame, fascinated and uncaring about the danger of the heat.

“How strong is the Veil here?” she questioned. Her voice was soft and low. She didn’t want others to hear this.

“I haven’t felt any weakness. For all its long history, Skyhold seems to retain a strong connection to this world. Why do you ask?”

She sighed deeply and looked down at her feet, “I’ve just felt like something was off. Just some irregularities with the mark, I think.”

“Have you felt any sharpness? Any pain?” he took the hand with the anchor into his own to examine it.

The power there shot through him. It was warm and familiar, palpable even in this form. She was speaking, but he no longer heard as he stared into the glowing reminder of his mistakes. Of his failures. The reminder of who he was. His fingers ghosted over the manifestation of the magic in her hand, and he felt it pull to his command. It would be so easy to take it, to crush it out of her. She was mortal, after all. Taking it would be an easy feat. But without the foci, it would be unstable, and in his weakened form, he would not be able to control it. Still, he was mesmerized by the subtle warping of this world it was causing just by existing. If only he had truly appreciated it when he had it. 

Of course, taking it would also most likely kill her. It was as much a part of her now as her heart, her mind. Another reason to wait for the foci. He did not think he could bring himself to extinguish a life such as hers.

“Are you listening to me, Solas?” she asked him impatiently. He snapped back into the room, lifting his gaze from the anchor to her lovely face.

“I apologize. I was trying to find any irregularities in the mark. It seems the same,” he rolled his thumb down her palm to her fingertips, “I don’t sense any changes.”

“Hmmm,” she muttered, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He set her hand back down, letting his fingers linger a heartbeat longer than he needed to. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head, “It’s nothing.”

“There must be something troubling you, or else you would not have tried to confirm that it was the mark causing the issue.”

“It’s nothing I want to discuss,” she said brusquely as she hopped down from the desk, “Though, I do appreciate your concern.”

“Of course. I am always here if you need my help, lethallan,” he said, “You need only ask.”

She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, making his entire body still in anticipation.

“Thank you.” Her hand was gone and she turned to walk away, and he was suddenly all the more empty for it. He suddenly had the urge to extend the moment, make it last as long as possible.

“You hold your secrets well, Inquisitor. Maybe one day you would be willing to share them with me,” he said impulsively.

She kept walking but called over her shoulder, “Only if you share yours first, lethallin.”

His smile spread across his face, and his eyes lingered on the back of her head as she made her way into the Great Hall. She was a distraction, and a powerful one at that. But in these moments, he could care less. As long as he didn’t pursue her and admired her from afar instead, there was no harm. 

He would at least allow himself that. 

 


	7. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain's ideas of the Fade are challenged.

_“You change everything.”_

He was flattering her, but in the moment, she didn’t care. It made her feel like herself. The woman who was worshipped and revered, instead of the figurehead propped up by a Chantry splinter. On a whim, she had kissed him; a quick, thoughtless thing. Just an impulse to thank him for his kindness.

Elain did not expect him to want more.

Solas grabbed her and pulled her into something deeper. His mouth opened seeking out hers and she could do nothing but go along with it. He bent her over, pressing his body against hers, shocking her. This is not what she expected at all. The unassuming apostate burned hot when ignited, and to her shame, she felt her own body react to the warmth. It had been a year since the Conclave and a year since she had someone in her bed. It embarrassed her that she missed intimacy so much.

But he stopped as quickly as he started, and she was thankful for it. No matter what her body wanted, it wasn’t what her heart wanted. There was an intensity and a passion behind his kiss, but it did not burn the same for her. The lips were unfamiliar, his hands unfamiliar, his voice unfamiliar. It wasn’t the same at all.

_“Wake up.”_

It wasn’t real. It had all been in the Fade, a dream. She started to panic; her heart raced, her breath came fast, and the entire village of Haven began to shrink in on her. Thankfully, she woke before she could lose herself in the fear. It was still dark, dawn hours away, and she gripped her coverlet tightly to assure herself she was not somewhere else. The anchor flared up, making an eerie green hue cover the room. It still didn’t seem real.

She laid awake in her bed, staring at the vaulted ceilings, unable to go back to sleep. She reflected on her dream and the validity of the realness of it. She was sure Solas was conscious of what was happening. He was always conscious of what was happening. Or had her mind conjured him acting that way? What other moments had she lived that could have been a dream? Had she imagined all of this? The Conclave, the attack on Haven, her time as Inquisitor? Was this all just a hellish nightmare that she could wake up from? 

Hope flickered in her heart when she thought of this being the case and she imagined being able to end this all by just opening her eyes. It reminded her of a memory of waking up in the middle of the night while traveling south years ago to help Clan Orovir find a new hunting ground. The sky had been alight with waves of greenish-gold light, and Revas woke her up to show her. She recalled being irritated at being roused from her sleep and dragged into the freezing night air, but it slipped away when she watched the lights snake across the horizon as if they were alive. For a few moments, neither of them had said anything. She had rested her head on his shoulder, and they gazed at the dark sky,content in the quiet beauty of it. Maybe the same would happen here. Maybe she would feel her Shadow running his thumb gently over her cheek, open her eyes, and see the life she was meant to have.

She brought her own fingers to her face and ghosted over her chin, her cheekbones, her nose, feeling the planes and memorizing every ridge and bump. There was a cold draft that pressed against her, making gooseflesh form on her skin. It wasn’t a dream, she knew. This was her life now. Nightmare after nightmare, not knowing what was real and what was not. Maggots invading her mind when she was awake, and glowing red lyrium haunting her dreams. And now, her mind tried to fill the emptiness in her heart with Solas. She would give anything for this not to be real, but it was. Nothing can change that, no matter how hard she tried to fill her days. 

This is real. It’s all that there is left. She would have to accept that.

Reaching to her night table, she grabbed the bottle of brandy she had waiting and pressed the bottleneck to her lips. The drink warmed her mouth, warmed her throat, and extinguished some of the anxiety plaguing her. She had taken a few more mouthfuls before her thoughts were dull enough for rest. She would need to speak with Solas in the morning to make sure he’s aware that invading her dreams without notifying her was not acceptable. She would not allow any man to take advantage of her vulnerability. But for now, she would not think about that.

Elain closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep with her fingers tightly clenching onto her pillows as if they could save her from drowning. 

\--- 

“I’m sorry, Solas, but I cannot believe that you -- a man who spends all his time in the Fade -- did not come into my dreams on purpose,” the Inquisitor said coldly. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her face was scrunched up in irritation. A far cry from the softness he saw in the dream.

“Whether you want to believe or not is irrelevant. The truth is still the truth,” he explained to her, more patronizing than he had intended, “And the truth is it was not me who sought you out in the Fade. It was the opposite, in fact.”

“You’re telling me that I’m the one who sought you out? In the Fade? The place that has been your home longer than the waking world?”

He nodded his confirmation.

“How?”

“I do not know.” It was the truth. She was not a mage and should not be able to exert that kind of influence over the world of dreams. Even more disturbing was her finding him specifically. No spirit searched for him without his knowledge. The waking world was more concrete, more steady. But in the Fade, he was in complete control over his domain. 

“I suspect the anchor drew on your emotions,” he continued, “Perhaps you had the urge to speak with me and the anchor did the rest.”

Her lips pursed in thought, then the irritation written on her face disappeared, “So I was able to navigate the Fade based on my emotions?”

“It is a possibility. I would only call it a theory until it can be tested,” he said, “Which would be much easier to do if you were a mage.”

She scoffed, “Well, I’m not. You’ll have to make due with this mundane, non-magic form.”

“Are you inviting me back into your dreams, Inquisitor?” he joked with her now that she believed the dream was not his doing. 

Her arms uncrossed and she sighed heavily. “For the purposes of studying the anchor, yes. I need to get control over this. I won’t let it dictate my actions for me.”

She turned to walk away and he was slightly disappointed. Whether she intended to or not, she found him in his domain, drew him out, and then let her own mask fall for a moment. It was slightly painful to know that it didn’t matter to her as much as the power in her mark. 

“We aren’t going to talk about the kiss?”

She stopped suddenly and stood deathly still for a heartbeat. “It was in the Fade. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s for the best,” he said with a sigh and watched her again as she left. 

It was for the best. He had seen this same story play out a thousand times in a thousand different ways and it always ended in heartbreak. Of all things he could do, sparing her that would be the most merciful. Still, he had to acknowledge that something inside him yearned for her in a way that made staying away nearly impossible. Her kiss was proof of that. He should’ve just let it be, let her believe that he didn’t care. 

But he hadn’t. Her wine-stained lips touched his, and he knew that no single taste would ever be enough. He had been impulsive, reckless even, yet he didn’t know if he would take it back if he had the chance. Just to feel her for that moment meant more to him that he was willing to admit. 

She meant more to him than he was willing to admit. 

This frustrating Dalish woman whose pride was nearly a match for his own had managed to take everything he had destroyed since he woke and put it all back together. The broken pieces of his mistakes laid on the earth of this world like shattered glass, and with determined hands, she cradled each piece and put everything right. She was everything he had hoped his people could be. She was everything he wanted to be. 

It was useless though. She did not admire him the way he admired -- even idolized -- her. His infatuation was a fruitless distraction while more important matters were at hand. Most importantly, the matter of the power in the anchor. 

He needed to find out why she was able to connect to that power and find him. And to find out how to get that power back.

\---- 

The parts of the Fade where she slumbered were eerily empty. He often found a plethora of spirits in places where there were many people; all of them pushing and tugging at the dreamers to reenact memories long passed. He enjoyed seeing the spirits do their dance, content to often sit and watch them alter the plane of the Fade around them in order to best interpret the overwhelming emotional attachment they had. Seeing a spirit of love reach out to youth in their dreams, or a spirit of faith be compelled to take on the form of a beloved icon was a simple joy that he took much pleasure from seeing. It often reminded him of children putting on their parent’s boots to feel like adults, forever trying to belong in the larger world, ignorant of the trials and dangers found there.

So to see the Inquisitor’s realm so cavernous and void of activity was disheartening. The only thing there was the blinding light of the power of the anchor, more tangible in its true form.Perhaps she had sought him out merely because she was alone. He could not imagine having nothing to dream of but darkness. 

More strange, the anchor seemed to be shifting. It jittered and shook, as if it were struggling to breathe. He edged closer to her realm, being conscious of its boundaries. He did not want to interfere uninvited. Her trust in him was already shaken, he would not have it diminished anymore. That she trusted him was integral to getting the foci back.

As he approached the edges of the boundaries, the anchor pulled back, as if it was alerted to his presence. Then, with anxious tendrils, the magic reached out towards him, exploring. It slid like snakes on their bellies, flicking with ambient energy, seeking something in its blindness. It rose before his face as smoke, and he stood still with fascination as it gently swirled around him, as if it were happy to have found him. The well of power rushed through him as a tendril stroked his arm, and visions of the past flitted before his eyes.

_Life from nothing. Death from everything. Creation of this world and all worlds. It’s the most precious gift we can give. The braziers burn high, as do the bodies, but it was necessary._

The bitter taste of herbs invaded his tongue, and memories that he had buried with the dead came flooding back. The power had a way of uncovering things that were best lost to time. He moved back from the magical energy and held his chin thoughtfully. The anchor was searching for him. It’s why she found him in her dreams. Lavellan’s mortal form would not hold it forever, and it sought a host that could. Such was the way with magic powerful enough to create. It was best left to experienced hands.

He hated himself for allowing it to fall into hers. He hated himself more for hoping that it had been her emotional response to him driving the anchor, but it was the anchor’s response to him. It was pointless to dwell on it now. What was done cannot be undone without power, and he lacked the means. To change this world fundamentally, he needed power. To get power, he had to change the world fundamentally. Or at least, guide someone else to do it. He must be patient. It was a virtue he had in spades after his long sleep, but he had slipped in kissing her. 

Stay the course. Focus. Remember what you are fighting for. 

A wisp of movement stirred in the corner of his eye, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned his head and looked beyond the clouded haze of the anchor’s magic, and saw what appeared to be a man pacing. It stalked along the edge of Lavellan’s dreams, furious steps grinding into the ever-changing ground.

Curious, Solas made his way to find this lone spirit. In all this emptiness, it had managed to manifest itself, and he wanted to see what remnant of a soul would seek this place out so brazenly. He took his time, letting himself be silent, not wanting to frighten away whatever the spirit was. As he drew in closer, he saw that it was an elf, and it mumbled to itself with obvious tension written on the features that it portrayed. Solas was interested. 

“What are you doing here, spirit?” he called out as he approached it. 

The spirit seemed startled, and looked in all directions of this realm, eyes wide and flighty.

“How did you find me?” the spirit asked in a hoarse whisper. Solas saw that the spirit had manifested in the image of an elf marked with vallaslin. Andruil’s, to be specific. He imagined this was one of the Lavellan’s people, judging by the proximity to her dreams. 

“Nothing hides from me here,” he responded. 

The spirit drew a bow so quickly is startled him. The arrow pointed at his heart, and the spirit’s face was intensely focused. A manifestation of a fine hunter, it seemed.

“You won’t hurt her, Fadewalker. Not while I can still draw my bow,” the spirit threatened, it’s fingers a memory of a steady aim. 

“I have no intention of hurting her,” he said coolly, “I am only attempting to protect her from the power she holds. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I don’t fear you. I fear for you,” the spirit shot back, “Especially if one hair on her head is harmed.”

Solas cocked his brow at the spirit’s aggressive posturing. “What manner of spirit are you? And why do you need to protect the Inquisitor?”

“I’m not a spirit,” it said, bow still pointed, ready to release, “And I vowed to protect her until I died. As long as there is a bow in my hand, my duty isn’t done.”

It was not uncommon to find spirits in the Fade that had latched on too tightly to a memory, forgetting their purpose. That put them in danger to turn, to be twisted against their nature. This seemed like a spirit of Devotion, already on its way to degrading into simple Rage. 

“I’m am sorry to inform you that you are a spirit. That cannot be helped. What do you remember before coming to this place? Who is this person you are materialized as?”

The spirit’s eyes looked confused momentarily, but he did not let down his bow. 

“I am not a spirit. I am the Banal’ras. I don’t remember anything but being her Banal’ras,” his explanation was brief, but told Solas much.

“You are a Shadow among the Dalish? That means she was a Maiden?”

The spirit circled around him, its feet sweet and light, “Yes. My Maiden. I am bound to her. I can’t leave her. I won’t leave her.”

“I see,” Solas chewed on this piece of information. Lavellan did keep her secrets well. He would not have guessed she was hiding that she held a prestigious title among the Dalish, though it did not surprise him. Women like Lavellan do not fall into the path she has taken. 

“What do you want with Elain? No lies, wolf, or I’ll pluck your eyes out and wear them as a necklace,” the spirit was persistently belligerent. 

“Elain? The Inqsuisitor?” 

“That’s what the shems call her. But she’s more than that. She knows it. The Huntress knows it too. If I stray too far away, She’ll find her again. I won’t let that happen,” the bow was still taut.

He was positive now this was a Spirit of Devotion. Very few spirits would be strong enough to linger near the remnants of his power. Even fewer would stand and face the Dread Wolf in the realm he was most dangerous. While spirits like this were a nuisance and often an obstacle in finding answers, he was intrigued by everything it knew about Lavellan. Solas was tempted to drain it of all its knowledge on her, suck it dry of every image of her it had. But he was not as ruthless and reckless as he was once in his youth. Despite the posturing, the spirit was no real threat to him. 

But the Huntress…

“Tell me about the Huntress,” he requested. 

“You know about the Huntress,” the spirit replied, “Know Her much better than any elf. You know She screams in this place, banging on Her walls. The echoes shake the Beyond like an earthquake. As long as I’m here though, near my Maiden, She cannot find me. I won’t let Her take me. I never belonged to Her. It was always Elain.”

A heaviness struck him, and he knew immediately of who -- and what -- the spirit spoke of. Another memory that he wished had stayed buried. 

“I can free you, Banal’ras,” he offered, “You can go to the places far away from here. Far away from the Huntress.”

The spirit finally lowered its bow, though very slowly, “No.”

Solas tilted his head, “Why not?”

The spirit moved swiftly towards the magical energy of the anchor, but stopped just short of the boundary. It would not be able to enter, no matter how hard it tried. Yet, it did still try, placing its hands against the magical walls, focusing deeply at what was inside. It drew simple shapes along the wall of magic with its finger, and watched with a furrowed brow as the magic pushed back against it. 

“I told you. It was always her. I don’t care about the gods. Only her.”

The spirit’s face turned downward in pain, and Solas recognized now why it would not leave. 

“I will not force you, of course. But it is very lonely here, Spirit. She cannot see you. She does not know you’re here. How will you exist knowing what you pretend to be is lost to her?” he asked sternly. 

“This is the only place I can see her. I won’t leave.”

He grew frustrated with the spirit’s stubbornness. There was no happy ending here he could foresee, and the spirit was already teetering between devotion and uncontrollable rage. It would end in disaster if he did not intervene. He stayed his hand though, fully aware that he could not foresee everything. Perhaps this spirit would find a way, like Cole had found a way through. Or perhaps not. 

“Have it your way, Banal’ras. Consider the offer rescinded. When the Inquisitor goes somewhere you cannot follow, remember my generosity and blame yourself when the Huntress claims you.”

It was crueler than he felt, but truthful. The spirit would think on it, and when he inevitably returned to study the anchor more, it would beg him to set it free. It was only a matter of time. Solas was patient. He could wait.

He left the realm of Lavellan’s dreams and went to seek out other spirits who would be more helpful to him. The path to Wisdom was often teeming with secrets waiting to be plucked, like flowers in spring. It was a familiar path to him, and it helped settle some of the disquiet the spirit inside of ....Elain’s sphere of dreams gave him. 

_Elain_. He said her name aloud. _Elain._ Again. _Elain_. It was a balm on his tongue, sliding off like rain. He wished she had been the one to tell him it. She was truly turning into a puzzle to be solved. A Maiden of the Hunt was an old title, older than the Dales. He wanted to know what it meant now, what had been preserved, and what had been lost. What it meant to her. 

He was so lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the cry for help stretching down Wisdom’s path. It was desperate and loud, unlike Wisdom, and he shaped the path to his whims to find the source faster. But when he entered the domain he had been so comfortable in for so long, his old friend was gone. 


	8. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain tries to fill a void. It leaves her empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is really, really tough. _**The consent surrounding the sex involved in here is very dubious and very intentionally done that way**_. This is not meant to titillate. It's an expression of grief and pain done in an unhealthy way, and it's something that is incredibly personal to me. Please heed the warning.

“I don’t care how far it is, I need to be there!”

Elain was furious. Another missive had come regarding her clan, and it seemed sending skirmishers to help draw off the raiders hadn’t been enough. The Duke of Wycome himself was the issue, and her shemlen advisors didn’t understand the urgency of the matter. To them, it was just another nuisance that could be dealt with by sending a few people to say the right words and it would all go away. There were more important issues. Fate of the world and the Chantry took priority. They didn’t know how often she had led her hunters against human raiders. They didn’t know how close to the edge of extinction every Dalish clan was. They didn’t know that city elves would suffer as well. They didn’t see the faces of her friends and family in these letters. Deshanna’s shaking hand, Bida’s scowling face, Sar’een’s frightened eyes...those were more real to her than any other threat right now.

“Inquisitor, please understand. Adamant will be a large undertaking, and we cannot afford distractions,” Cullen tried to explain. She picked up her wine cup and took a deep drink, her rage bubbling just below the surface. She slammed the cup back down on the table, and reached for the bottle sitting in front of Josephine.

“My family is not a distraction, Commander,” she spat out, her words starting to slur slightly in her anger, “I won’t leave them to fend for themselves.”

Cullen and Josephine looked between each other, their eyes nervous. She huffed at their transparent cowardice and poured another glass of the wine with trembling hands. It was ridiculous she even had to to ask permission to protect her clan. She could ride out of Skyhold right now and crush anything that tried to hurt them. The wine hit her throat, but did nothing to calm her. 

“Inquisitor. I think it may be more important that you are…”Josephine trailed off and her eyes lingered on the wine bottle, “Er, that you are thinking more clearly when making a decision like this. Perhaps I can send for some water?”

“I’m fine, Ambassador,” she said through gritted teeth, suddenly wanting nothing more than to let this entire organization burn to the ground, “My thoughts are perfectly clear. They are entirely set on saving my family from being wiped out. I thought that you may have understood the importance of that, given the great lengths we’ve gone through to save face for yours.”

Josephine blushed darkly and turned her eyes towards the war table, embarrassed by her bringing her family’s dire fortunes into this. Elain did not care though. She was sick of her life being disregarded in favor of appearances. Sick of putting everyone else’s concerns before her own. 

“Surely there must be something that can be done without you going there in person,” Leliana attempted to compromise, “We cannot expect the Dalish to deal with Duke Antoine themselves.”

“I could send one of my ambassadors to Antoine’s court to ferret out information. Once we are more informed, we can make a better decision on what to do,” Josephine suggested. Her blush was still tinting her cheeks, but she was a professional diplomat. No amount of taunting would change that.

“And if he decides to purge the alienage and my clan? What then? Will your ambassadors stop him?” 

“She’s right. Waiting for diplomatic means could endanger the city elves,” Leliana agreed, “I suggest we move against the Duke in a more permanent way. I can have my agents take him out of the picture entirely. The nobles in Wycome could deal with arguing over who takes over.”

Elain pressed her hand to her mouth and thought on the suggestion. It would solve the issue of time, but would the nobility retaliate? She couldn’t take the chance of a purge.

“Do it,” she said, “Have your agents go in as soon as possible.”

Leliana nodded and excused herself to give the word to her agents. Josephine sighed gently, but moved onto discussing the situation in Val Chevin. Cullen frowned at the war table, his downturned lips creasing his entire face, making him look much older than he was. They didn’t approve of assassinating nobles. Elain took another drink of wine. 

She no longer gave a fuck what they thought. She was in the one in charge here, not them. 

“Inquisitor!” 

A scout ran into the meeting, out of breath and panting. She silently thanked Mythal for the timely interruption. She didn’t know how much more of their silent judgment she could stomach. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“You wanted me to inform you if Solas returned.”

She turned to face the scout, and urged him on with a wave of her hand. 

“He just walked up to the gates.”

\---

Elain had told him he didn’t have to be alone. She realized Solas was afraid of it. Not the kind of fear that unsettled him, but rather, a deep, all-encompassing thing. The kind that would keep him awake, if his cure for the loneliness didn’t lie in the Fade. It was something she could understand. She had let grief elude her for months so she didn’t have to face the prospect of being alone. But it didn’t make things better. It only left her empty. Hollow. 

It’s why she let him kiss her again. 

She was so tired of feeling empty. So tired of being alone. She missed her family, her friends. She missed much more too, but nothing could replace that. Elain only hoped Solas could distract her long enough to make the dull ache of loneliness subside.

He was apprehensive about her allowing him in, letting down her guard. She sensed he was afraid to do the same. But the conflict washed away from his eyes and he pulled her back into him, arms engulfing her, mouth opening against hers, letting himself get lost in her. Once again, his passion was a force of its own, a living warmth that he pressed into her. She told herself this was what she needed to feel whole again, and slowly, her body began to react.

But he moved away again. She was left with cold lips and a cold body, and her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Ar lath ma vhenan,” he said, before turning and exiting her balcony. His shoulders slumped as he did so, as if he had been defeated. 

Elain could do nothing but stare in disbelief. He didn’t know her. He couldn’t know her. There is no way he meant it. It angered her that he thought that was the right thing to say, to her of all people. Didn’t he realize she needed him to fill something she lost? This had nothing to do with love. Love was fire, love was burning, love was sweat and tears and anger and lust and scars. This wasn’t love. She would not let him treat it that way.

“Solas,” she called after him as she stepped into the threshold of her room. The cold air blowing in behind her made her skin prickle. 

“Please,” he said quietly, stopping at the top of the stairs. 

She began to untie the cords holding her robes shut, and let the sleeves of the cloth slip down her shoulders, down her waist, and fall to the floor. The cold now made her shiver. 

“I don’t like to play games,” she told him, her voice level, “If you want me, I’m here.”

He turned around and looked at her, and she saw the red flush creep up his neck, into his face. His breath was slow, unnaturally so. She knew when a man was trying to stay in control, to resist something he wanted. She knew how to break it. Her hand slid down her neck, down her breast, a slow finger circling around an erect nipple, then moved down to her hip, and finally brushed against the top of her inner thighs. His resolve broke.

Solas was on her in two great strides, consuming her again, wrapping her nakedness in his warmth. His kisses were wild and hard, moving from her face to her neck, tugging on her skin the entire way. He moaned into her neck as he tasted her, and in a rush of desire, he lifted her up and carried her to her bed. There was no doubt what he wanted, and she told herself she wanted it too.

But after laying her down on the downy pillows and soft furs, his ardor cooled. He no longer threatened to burn up as he took her in as quickly as he could, and instead leaned over her, looking intently at her exposed body. He whispered a dead language against her skin, and when his tongue slowly slid from her neck to her breast, her insides churned.

A nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking, and her stomach felt sick. His fingers gripping her waist, and the need to vomit rose in her throat. His pelvis pressing against her, begging for her to open her thighs, and she wanted nothing more but to keep them locked shut forever. This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like it should.

It felt wrong.

His lips were thicker, his mouth not as wide. His breath was hot, but not as hot. His fingers too long, his legs too short, his weight pressed against her chest suffocating. Everything was wrong. The haze of the wine and the haze of her anger and the haze of her own loneliness receded, and she was left with Solas undoing the ties of his breeches to free himself. She wanted to push him away, to scream at him for lying about loving her. Instead, she pulled him back down on her. The need to rid herself of this emptiness drove her more than the feeling of unease. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him into her, and he moaned desperately in response. 

He penetrated her, and she felt nothing. He covered her in kisses, and she still felt nothing. He groaned words of love in her ear, and it made her sick. She tried so hard to feel something, to feel whole again, but all she felt was sober. Sober and aware that another lover was in her bed, and nothing was as it should be. The chemistry was not there. The passion was not there. The need to please and to be pleased. It was all as hollow as her.

His passion was short lived, and despite him trying to hold back, he came with a shudder, his open mouth grunting into her neck. It had been the first time in years she did not climax. It added resentment to the hollowness, and the urge to claw at him and push him off of her arose. Instead, she sighed softly and stared at the ceiling of her room.

Solas lifted his head and stroked her face gently, looking at her with pure adoration in his eyes. She was disgusted. 

“I am sorry, vhenan,” he whispered to her, “It has been a long time.”

“It’s fine,” she lied. 

“I can leave, if you wish,” his hands wandered over her body now, and she knew he did not want to leave.

“Stay,” she lied again.

Maybe if she tried again, it would be different. It had been over a year since she last gave into her desires.. And she had never had another partner before. Perhaps it would take time to get used to the rhythm. She owed it to herself to try. 

After he took her again later and the feeling of hollowness only persisted, she somehow knew it would never be enough. He fell asleep with his head nestled next to hers, and she stared into the darkness. Her mind drifted to the morning of the Conclave. It was the first time she allowed herself to think about it. The bright morning sun, the feel of his body wrapped around hers, the sweetness of the peaches, the sweetness of his thoughts. That had been perfect.

She felt more empty than she had before letting Solas into her bed. The last few drops of brandy in her bottle on the nightstand burned on her tongue, and the hot tears she silently shed burned her cheeks. 

\---

_That night she dreamed of Revas for the first time since the Conclave. Her dream was dark, and she could only hear him screaming her name. Elain! Elain! It pounded against the walls of her mind, and no matter how far she looked into the darkness, she could not find him. The screams seemed so far away._

_Elain walked for what seemed liked hours searching for him. Her eyes grew used to the pitch black darkness and shapes began to take form. White, amorphous creatures floated in the air, undefinable and nearly transparent. She reached out to touch one, and it jerked away and dissipated. She drew her hand back quickly and vowed not to touch one again. Instead, she watched as the other figures drifted slowly to the ground, and began to take on familiar shapes. One by one, limbs began to grow. An arm outreaching, and leg bent and twisted under a newly formed torso. A head full of hair sitting on a moving, warping neck. It as if they were being shaped from clay in front of her. The frenzied movement stopped, and she cautiously moved forward to look at what was born of the ether of this place._

_The dead eyes of her friends stared back up at her. Glassed over and empty. She brought her hands to her mouth and stifled a cry at the grotesque sight. Twig’s mouth was agape, maggots crawling on his teeth, and Llyn’s ears were rotting off his head. She didn’t want to see. She shut her eyelids tight, but the images didn’t go away. The flies buzzing around their rotting corpses echoed in this place, filling her brain with the vibrations of thin wings beating against carapaces._

_She turned away and vomited, her head flying between her knees. The smell of the decay invaded her nostrils, making her retch more. The vividness of this overwhelmed her and she tried to run away from it. No matter where she went, she still saw. And when she stopped running, out of breath and exhausted, she saw him as well._

_Standing at the center of the bodies now was Revas’ ghoulish face. His cheeks were sunken in, his eyes were a glassy black, and the vallaslin he had worn so proudly now glowed red. Like the Goddess. His mouth didn’t move, but his neck clicked as he tilted his head, staring through her. She heard him screaming her name again, but it didn’t come from the phantom that towered so menacingly in front of her. His voice may have been a thousand miles away, it seemed so far. Her hand went to touch the onyx halla around her neck to find some comfort, some release as she faced her worst nightmare, but her fingers came up empty._

_It was no longer there. He was no longer there. Only the dead remained._


	9. Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain stumbles upon Venatori in the Hissing Wastes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Extreme depictions of violence and gore in this chapter. PLEASE HEED THIS WARNING.

The fire they had set up at camp was nothing but embers glowing in the night. Elain prefered it that way; the moons shone brightly in the Hissing Wastes, and the light was soft and welcoming. She let herself bathe in it while she dug her toes in the sand. August rams gloated nearby the camp, and the heavy steps of a gurn grazing for food reminded her that deserts always come to life when the sun left. Pale wisps of clouds floated in the sky, but here, slumber was reserved for the scorching hours of the day. The night meant coolness. It meant reprieve. It meant fresh air and every star in the sky shining brightly, filling your vision for miles. She could see why her people thought of the stars as drops of the Sun’s blood, shed by Elgar’nan. They dripped from the heavens, splattered across the dark canvas of the sky, and glistened like glass. 

Elain loved the desert. She had never been to the ones in Orlais, but years ago, she traveled to the scattered clans in Nevarra to secure an alliance. Lavellan had overstepped their hunting grounds on the Nevarran border, and she had to make amends. She traveled with Revas across the vast, seemingly empty dunes, staring at the same star-filled sky. It was so quiet, so still. When they came upon the oasis Clan Abersher’al was guarding, she knew she would extend her stay.

The clan lived on the edge of a knife, always days away from dying of starvation and thirst should they be attacked. And yet, they shared with the Maiden and her Shadow without a care in the world. Every moment was cherished, every day spent living was a day well spent. They held Council in front a great hearth, Sylaise’s sacred herbs burning within, and they crowned Elain in desert flowers crafted in lazurite as an honored guest. The Triumvirate, the matriarchal rulers of their Council, let her sit among them as an equal, and she was charmed by the Hearth Mistress and their Daughter of the Herd. She was among her people; not just the Dalish, but scions of the Dalish. Other women like her who took on a sacred role and devoted themselves through arduous trials to earn their titles. Hearth Mistress Ellya gave her copper armbands, beautiful cloaks woven with metallic thread,kohl to line her eyes and promises of continued good relations. In turn, Elain exchanged the standard gifts, and promised to stand against the sands with Nevarra’s clans. It was a resounding success, one of her first, and talk of the strength of her diplomacy made its way to the clans all across Thedas.

Elain wanted to stay there for months, laying in the hot sun during the day, languid and lazy, and making love under the stars at night with the same languorous pace. As it was though, she and Revas had delayed for far too long. She returned to the flat plains of the Free Marches, and she felt as if she had floated out of a dream.

The Hissing Wastes brought it all back again. The anger and despair she felt at Adamant returned as well.

It had been the Grey Wardens who caused this. And Corypheus. And the Chantry itself. There were so many short-sighted people to blame, so many hands in the tragedy. She would never travel to Abersher’al again because of those hands. Never share quiet nights under the stars with her lover. Never feel the warmth of the desert sun in her bones. All of them would pay for what they took from her. She reached for the wine laying on the ground next to her, and she drank deeply. Once the last few drops went down her throat, she cradled the empty bottle in her arms.

All of them would suffer. She would see to it personally.

“Faded and furious, violence only fans the flames,” Cole spoke from across the dying fire, “What hurts you hurts him and he wants to hurt it.”

She laid on the blanket she had sprawled out in the sand, “What are you on about now?”

“You are too bright to see, but there are still shadows being cast. Little pieces moving in the darkness. You move pieces too, but you don’t know it,” he responded in his enigmatic way. 

She rubbed her temples with her fingers, “Cole, I’m in no mood for spirit talk tonight. Go try talking to Solas instead.”

“The smartest thing you’ve said to it this entire trip,” Vivienne remarked from under the small awning she had set up. She did not look up from the book she was reading.

“Solas is sleeping, and I don’t want to go back to the Fade,” Cole said fearfully. He had been uneasy since Adamant. She did not blame him. The Beyond was a realm of gods and demons, where none of them should tread. It had not been pleasant. 

“Just be quiet then. My head hurts,” she said. 

“Perhaps if you weren’t single-handedly drinking the Inquisition’s entire supply of wine…” the first enchanter remarked as she turned the page of her book.

“Enough,” Elain said sternly, “I don’t need another lecture.”

“Of course dear,” she responded condescendingly, “You are Inquisitor, after all. Do as you like.”

Her eyes were heavy and tired, and she did not feel like engaging Vivienne tonight. She knew it was becoming a problem, but the wine was the only thing that helped her sleep. If she wasn’t rested and thinking clearly, she would be useless. It was a necessary evil. 

She was prepared to open her mouth for a rebuttal, but instead, stilled when she heard her hart, Aravas, moving restlessly at its makeshift stable. Aravas chuffed and whined, brushing his antlers against the branches of the desert tree his reins were anchored to. He was nervous.

“Cole,” she said quietly, almost a whisper, “Douse the fire. Now.”

The spirit boy nodded and kicked sand over the embers, burying them. Elain stood and walked to Aravas, patting his flank gently as she approached. Vivienne was behind her, and she heard the mage suck air through her teeth when they saw what the hart had seen.

Creaking caged wagons, pulled across the vast sands by men and their magic no more than a mile away. Their silhouettes were Venatori. 

“Slaves, most likely. For their rituals,” Vivienne whispered in her ear. She nodded. Cole had already gone to retrieve Solas, and he squatted groggily next to them.

“What should we do?” he asked, his eyes still full of sleep. Elain untied Aravas from the shrub tree.

“Liberate them.”

\--

They fell on the Venatori in full force. Elain held nothing back. There was no mercy for those who took people as slaves. They did not deserve it. Arrow after arrow flew from her bow, and she watched in silent glee as she saw her explosive shots ripping them apart limb from limb. Cole ran between the mages, silently slitting tendons and muscles. The fell to the ground, crying in agony, and Solas used the opportunity to send bolts of lightning through their bodies. Vivienne engaged the large brawler twice her size, conjuring a spirit blade to wear him down and build her protections up.

It was bloody carnage for the Venatori, and Elain reveled in it. Battle was becoming one of the few places she felt alive, felt free. The oppressive weight of Skyhold still pushed down on her, but when she was fighting, she remember who she was. A Huntress. A bringer of death, and a lover of life. Each moment during a fight, a huntress edged on both, and each moment was sacred. 

The brawler fell, and the two remaining soldiers took flight, retreating from the fight. Instead of giving chase, her little group opted to free the prisoners instead. She did not want to traumatize them further. There were four wagons and in the the dark of the desert, it was hard to see how many had been stuffed inside. Cole broke the lock on the first one and the cage door swung open. Vivienne cast a mage light, illuminating the wagons.

They were all dead. 

The corpses were piled up on the floors of the wagon, their blood drained,and pieces of lyrium cracked off their bones. Flies circled around the rotting bodies, and she knew that the maggots she saw now were real. All too real. Cole ran to the other three wagons, flinging the doors open to try to find survivors. 

No living in the second. None in the third. Elain walked slowly behind him, rage building up in her. What a waste. The bodies were used for harvesting red lyrium, even after they had died. Scavengers ate away at the rotting flesh, and they were still tools for Corypheus. She noticed most of the ears of the the corpses had been cut off. They had probably been elves.

Easy to capture, easy to enslave, easy to torture, easy to kill, easy to suppress, easy to crush, easy to forget. Her skin felt like it was boiling, and her face distorted in her fury. 

“Vhenan...” Solas started, but she waved him off. There would be no placating her tonight. 

Cole opened the last cage, and there was no life. The rank aroma of decay filled the air, and Elain hated that she was used to it now. Glassy, dead eyes of elves stared up at her, and flashes of her friends faces imprinted on them. Her lip quivered and she gripped her bow tightly. She raised her eyes and searched for the trail of the two soldiers that fled. They were far ahead now, but the sand had saved their tracks. 

She whistled for Aravas and took off with a sprint, her bare feeting pounding in the shifting sands. She pushed her body to go as fast as it would allow and even the steady thumping of her team’s footfalls behind her drew further and further away. But Aravas’ steady gallop approached her quickly, and she jumped on his saddle when he drew up next to her.

“Inquisitor!” she heard Vivienne yell behind her.

It was no use. Elain was the Maiden again and this time, she was the one who stalked the sanctified Prey. She would tear their limbs from their bodies and hang them from the trees. Sever their heads and feed them to wandering beasts. Burn their eyes in honor of Andruil so that the Mother of Hares could see Her Maiden exalting Her again. She could already taste the blood on her lips and smell it on the air, and she spurred Aravas on faster with her heels. 

Aravas’ feet pounded against the ground, and she gripped on tightly to him with her thighs to stop bouncing. She would need her steady aim. They rode at full speed for only a few minutes when she caught sight of dust being kicked up by the soldiers on their own mounts. They must have been camped near where they were moving the wagons. It didn’t matter. They would die anyways.

She drew her arrow and aimed, letting the first shot fly into the back of the neck of the soldier veering left. He fell off his horse onto his neck, and the horse stumbled over his broken body. She pulled back on her bow for the second arrow, but the shot veered too far and hit the horse on its flank. It bucked wildly, sending its rider flying, and racing off in the distance with wounded rear. 

Elain did not hesitate. She pulled back on Aravas, and he slowed to a stop in front of the broken soldier. The man still breathed, but his chest rattled and his eyes stared blankly ahead. He would not be moving anywhere. She left him be and sought out the second man. Ahead, she saw him struggling to run in the sand, but his nerves got the better of him, and he slipped constantly, forcing him to crawl in fear. She did nothing to mollify that fear and dismounted Aravas.

Her walk was slow and menacing, and he yelped when he saw her coming. He continued to scramble and stumble, up again then stumbling again. His panicked cries were like the sweetest music, but she did not want to listen to it for very long. She drew another arrow in her bow and made a clean shot in his leg. Another in his other leg. A third in his shoulder. A fourth in his foot. She filled him with her little arrows, making him feel as much pain as possible. 

It would have been unworthy of her when she walked among the Dalish, but it was different now. Now she brushed shoulders with shemlen, and had seen their cruelty. Their dismissal of her kind. Their destructive nature. They deserved whatever pain she could inflict. The man rocked and squirmed on the ground, howling and crying in pain, and it occurred to her that arrows did not sufficiently express how utterly detestable she found him and his ilk. Arrows were for clean kills. For quick deaths. He deserved neither. 

A weight that hung on her waist called to her, and her fingers stroked the axe she had taken from the soldier back on the night Haven was attacked. Where her bow had failed there, the axe had saved her. She had kept it by her side as a piece of security. And as a reminder. Never become complacent, lest you fall victim to those who would harm you.

Elain pulled the ax from her belt and turned it over in her hand, taking in its size, its feel. It was plain, simple, efficient, standard. It would work for what she needed it for, and there was a sense of relief in that. When all else fell apart, the a sharpened edge remained the same. Pressing her foot on the back of the wailing man’s head, she pushed his face into the sand. He choked and flailed wildly, but only made his injuries worse. 

“Please!” he screamed into the ground, his begging fragmented by the force of her heel. 

It angered her that he pleaded. He was less than dirt, and to ask her, the Maiden of the Hunt for mercy? Utmost blasphemy. 

She brought the ax down into his spine with all her might. The crunching, splintering bones made him gurgle, but it did not stop her. She raised the axe again, smashed into him again. And again. Over and over and over again until his back was nothing but blood and pulp, spraying into her face, her hair, her clothes. She spit on his remains and kicked sand over it. Worthless. 

The other man had still not moved, but Elain would not let him live through this either. They were all guilty of high crimes against her people, and they would all be judged in the Wild. There was no court or Council to make the decisions in the Wild. It was about survival and dominion here, and she was intimately familiar with both. She circled around the man with the blank eyes, and it also angered her. He didn’t even have the decency to look at her when he died. She would make him see.

The ax smashed into his skull, cracking the bone and tissue. It opened like an egg, but to her dismay and horror, instead of the flesh and gray matter, thousands of maggots poured out. It only enraged her further, and she screamed her distaste, sick of these gluttonous little parasites that plagued her. She wailed on them with her ax, hitting them as hard as she could over and over and over. They flew in the air at the force, crunching and disintegrating, but for every one that died, two took its place. More and more came out and her voice was hoarse from furious cries. She would kill every last one of them. They would not haunt her anymore. Nothing would stop her. Nothing would stand in her way. Their bodies piled up and she laughed maniacally as they started to stay dead, no longer wriggling and squirming and writhing and biting her with their little teeth. 

They disappeared entirely as she felt unfamiliar arms grab her own and pull her away. All that was left was the mutilated corpse of the Venatori; his blood soaked into the ground and the rest of him nearly unrecognizable.

“Lavellan, what’s wrong with you!?” Solas yanked her shoulder backwards. 

“Do not hold her so tightly!” Vivienne scolded him. She was the other pair of arms pulling her off the corpse. 

“So many maggots...so much decay…” Cole mumbled. He leaned over the body.

“Not now Cole,” Solas reprimanded him. He set his hand on her jaw and pulled her face towards him, “Lavellan, look at me. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replied calmly.

“My dear, what ever has gotten into you? The man is barely more than liquid,” the first enchanter commented as her nose scrunched in disgust.

Elain pulled herself away from their ensnaring arms, and dusted off her armor. She clicked her tongue and Aravas strode up to her, nuzzling her neck in appreciation. 

“It was no less than he deserved,” she climbed back onto her hart’s saddle with an indifference that felt liberating,”Come. We need some rest. It is a long way back to Skyhold.”

Her team looked as if she had just peeled off her own skin, but there was nothing left in her to make her care. She rode back towards camp, eager to climb into her bedroll and finish the wine she had waiting there.


	10. Carry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain receives news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WArning: Sexual harassment/misogyny on par with the Dragon Age series as a whole. There's also some pretty intense emotional scenes and verbally abusive language.

“My Lady, you were exquisite at the Ball in Halamshiral,” Duke Delacroix commented, handing Elain a glass of wine as he took a seat next to her in her banquet hall of Skyhold, “I didn’t know the Dalish could teach such elegance. Such refinement.”

She smiled coyly, and sipped from the fluted glass, “You flatter me, Sir Duke. I felt as if I were struggling to stay afloat among such prestigious players of the Grand Game; a minnow in the pool of eels, so to speak. I am delighted to know that I carried myself with a grace that caught your august attentions.”

The Duke laughed loudly, and she was suddenly reminded of Warlord Den. Homesickness tugged on her heart. “You are a treasure, Lady Lavellan. Madame de Fer, I had no idea. Why keep her hidden from Court?”

Vivienne grinned brightly and rested her chin on her hand, “I doubt our peers would be nearly as enchanted with the Inquisitor as you are. Look at all the uproar over Celene and her elven...friend.”

“Ah, but a scandal only escalated because of Gaspard and Celene’s silly feud, not because of the nature of the relationship, my Lady Vivienne,” Delacroix winked at Elain and her own eye twitched. 

“You underestimate our peers uncouth ideas over elves, my dear Delacroix.”

They conversed over dinner with several other nobles, all intrigued with her delicate handling of the war in Orlais. A Duchess with a mask embellished with butterfly wings and crushed seashells asked about her life living in a “dirty forest”. Another questioned how she learned to read. A Marquise remarked on her hair, inferring that it must have spiritual significance.

She was nothing but an exhibit to them. An oddity to gawk and gossip over, and in the case of Delacroix, to lust for. A taste of exoticism they never saw, even though half of them lived in and ruled over her ruined homeland. She was a legend come to life, and they cooed over her ability to form coherent sentences and complete thoughts, as if her people were nothing more than animals. 

Her utter contempt for them brewed under the surface, but her plans with Vivienne superseded her comfort at the moment. Support must be drummed up for an unprecedented move to be made. A mage ascending to the Sunburst Throne was unheard of, but she and the First Enchanter were determined to make it a reality. Elain needed her in charge of the Chantry to make the changes needed. Though she never explicitly stated it, Elain knew she was not as devout as she played, and that a more conservative choice like Cassandra would be detrimental for her plans to spread elven influence. It was easy to revolutionize Skyhold. Now it was time for the world.

So she kept her face calm and collected while the nobles tittered over inconsequential things and Duke Delacroix ran a lecherous hand up her thigh.

“You are the most intoxicating woman I have had the pleasure of meeting, dearest,” he leaned to her ear and whispered, “I should love to see what delightful secrets you have hidden in these delectable thighs of yours.” 

He squeezed her upper thigh, fingertips brushing between her legs. She brought her hand to his and moved it to his lap roughly, disgusted by his wandering. When she did so, her fingers brushed a growing arousal between his legs. Filthy shemlen.

“I’m sure you say that to all your elven toys,” she whispered back coldly. She picked up her glass to drink.

“Not at all, lovely. I believe you are the only woman who has heard those words uttered from my mouth,” he responded, “But there are so many more words I want to say. I am eager to use my tongue to win you over.”

He was transparent in his wants, and she was losing her patience. 

“Inquisitor?”

She turned away from the Duke to see Josephine standing with Leliana and Cullen. They were grim-faced and sober. They probably had some news about the Arbor Wilds. Elain did not care. Anything to escape this foul Duke.

“If you will excuse me friends, my advisors need my expertise,” she got up and left the reception, leaving Vivienne to charm the pathetic group.

They walked in silence towards the war room, but her advisors stopped in Josephine’s office instead of entering. Cullen sat down on her small lounge chair, and Leliana leaned against the stone wall.

“What’s going on?” she asked, suspicious of their solemn demeanor. 

“Lady Lavellan...I...It seems...there is…” Josephine stumbled over the words, a first for her. Her gut began to sink.

“Here,” Leliana reached out and handed her a letter. 

The paper smelled of home. The scent of the reeds on the rivers of the Free Marches, and the ink had a brownish hue, indicative of the burnt ashes her clan used for writing. She sat down in the chair across from Cullen slowly, opening the letter with shaking hands. 

_My friend,_

_I hope this letter reaches you. It is with great regret that I inform you that the assassination of Duke Antoine caused the leaders of Wycome to pin the death on the city elves. They called it an uprising. They blamed them for the poisoning of the water as well._

_The alienage was wiped out. A few came to us, looking for refuge, but we had none to give. The Amalgamated Guard of the Free Marches came for justice, and our hunters fell. The Keeper is dead. So is the Council. The remaining few fled, but I cannot hold the Guard back on my own. I will try to lead them to Diceni territory, but I fear we will be cut down before the night’s end._

_Pray to our Goddess to give you strength, Maiden, for you carry the last of Clan Lavellan with you._

_With the Grace of the Mother of Hares,_

_Keeper Sar’een_

“We have to send reinforcements,” she choked out, her hands trembling so hard the paper rattled, “There is a unit near Starkhaven, we have to get them to..”

“Inquisitor…,” Cullen said quietly. 

“We can’t just leave them to die! I wont’ allow it,” she shook her head.

“There’s nothing to save,” Leliana said tonelessly, “The letter was found on a body. There were Venatori agents in Wycome. They orchestrated this all.”

“No…”

“I’m sorry,” Leliana said.

Anger and bile rose in her throat, and had the axe been on her waist, she would’ve buried it in her Spymaster’s chest. _This is your fault,_ she wanted to scream. 

“Where was your intel Leliana? Where was your information?” her voice began to rise, and she crumpled the letter between her hands. 

“Where were these agents ferreting out this important detail about the Venatori? WHERE WERE THEY?!” she sprung up out of the chair and screamed at her. She couldn’t meet Elain’s eyes, and stared down at the floor instead. 

The walls of the room were closing in on her, and she couldn’t stand to be there anymore. She stormed out of Josephine’s office with the sounds of quiet whispering behind her and made her way to her own private quarters. She would not let them see her break. She would not. 

Once she was alone, her rage boiled over and she burned every missive and report that sat on her desk. Useless husks of paper telling her nothing she wanted to hear. She threw them by the armful into her brazier, and watched as the parchment blackened and curled, and tiny pieces wriggled and squirmed like the maggots. She spit into the fire, cursing her spymaster, her other advisors, the Chantry, the Inquisition. She said the forgotten words into the pyre and gave power to her voice. 

_May they burn. May they rot. May they wither. May their teeth crack. May their bones break. May they be impotent. May they suffer._

She spoke the words, uttered the Lies of the Black Tongue, a rite known to those followers of Dirthamen.

_May they know fear. May they know pain. May they mourn. May they bury their children. May their ashes be scattered._

It was not all the words. She did not know all the words. Andruil was her patron, but she had broken the oaths she made to Her. There was no aid to be found with the Sister of the Moon. Falon’din guided the dead, but she would not let them go. Mythal was the Protector, but there was nothing to protect. Only Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, Whisperer in the Womb, Lord of the Dark House, could give her what she needed. 

She repeated the words she knew, throwing more paper, more kindling into the fire. A book on the history of the Andraste. Various volumes of shemlen stories. Even Clan Ralaferin’s children’s tales made for shem consumption. Sniveling fools trying to appease this abomination of a religion. She hated this world. It took everything from her.

The fire blazed high, and the curses were uttered over and over again. She sat in front of the fire, and her soul felt numb. It wasn’t enough. This did not absolve her. She must face a hard truth and swallow it, for the sake of what she lost.

She had failed.

She had failed her friends, she had failed her father, her Keeper, her lover, and herself. Her decisions led them to death, pulled them down the path of destruction. While she had so foolishly tried to better the lot for elves in this human society, an entire alienage of elves were annihilated. Her clan annihilated. They were hunted like beasts while she danced and drank and indulged in the decadence of this cursed world. Nothing she had done furthered the clan. Nothing she had done had furthered the elves.Nothing had protected them. She had just delayed the inevitable.

Slowly, she began to undo the braids in her hair and carefully remove her many beads. She placed them lovingly in cedar box her father had sent her before she had become Inquisitor. A glass bead, a gift from Clan Silure. A feather coated in resin, a gift from Clan Orovir. A copper clasp, a gift from Clan Abersher’al. A small wood bead in the shape of a spider, a gift from Clan Tanaleth. A single blush-colored pearl, a gift from Revas. A tooth of a hare, a reminder of home. They all had stories, all told of her life. The life she worked so hard for. The life she wanted back. The life just beyond reach.

She carefully lifted the cedar box and carried it to her vanity. She placed it among the treasures she had collected and clasped the lid shut. Then, with shaking hands, she picked up the hand razor that laid on a gilded platter on the vanity top. It was a garish, Orlesian thing, but it would do what she needed. She sat on the little stool in front of the vanity, and stared at herself in the mirror. 

She had failed. And she knew what must be done.

Long pieces of her thick black hair fell to the floor as she sawed it off with the razor. It pulled on her scalp, making it sore and raw. A small price to pay for the harm she had done. Strand after strand came falling down, and the woman she saw hiding underneath it was worn and broken. Once she was free of weight, she picked it all up off the ground, cradled the soft waves in her arms, and carried back to the brazier.

She threw the hair inside the fire, and began to utter the curses again. 

_May you know fear. May you know pain. May you mourn. May you bury their children. May your ashes be scattered._

\---

Vivienne climbed her way up the long flight of stairs that led to the Inquisitor’s private quarters. The banquet had been a resounding success, and with the right strings pulled, her ascension was all but assured. She was finding herself continually surprised with Lavellan’s ability to play the Game, despite her...lesser qualities. 

As she approached the door to her room, a bitter, burning smell filled her nostrils. She assumed it was another Dalish ritual. Though the Inquisitor rarely spoke of her heritage, there were moments where she quietly practised her faith. Vivienne thought it would make her appear savage at first, but there was something peaceful in her face when she lit incense in her little burner and closed her eyes. It reminded her of things long since passed, but lingering none the less. It was a harmless little act, so she didn’t deem it necessary to advise the Inquisitor to think of an alternative. 

She opened the door and entered the room, and found it mostly dark but for the low embers in the brazier. It was unusual.

“Inquisitor? Are you here?”

“Yes,” she answered, her words heavy and slurred. Vivienne slumped her shoulders in irritation.

“Darling, really. Was the company so awful that you had to come here to get drunk in the dark? I thought this is what you wanted?” she scolded her gently. 

Vivienne heard rather than saw the Inquisitor swirl the bottle she held in her hand before bringing it to her mouth. She didn’t respond to her chiding. 

“I know it is difficult, but it is for the greater good,” she walked towards Lavellan sitting on the floor in front of the glowing embers, “And you made quite the impression on Duke Delacroix. He was positively begging for Ambassador Montilyet to arrange a visit for you to his private orchards in the Dales.”

“Naturally,” she answered bitterly, “I’m sure he wouldn’t see any irony in it either.”

Vivienne sighed, “We spoke of this. The Duke has strong ties to the Chantry. His word will be weighted very heavily in the debate on the next Divine.”

“I won’t use my body as a bargaining piece,” she said dully as she took another drink.

“You are resourceful. Cunning. Charming. You will find a way to win his support no matter what.”

“Hmph,” another drink. Vivienne sensed something wrong. More than usual, at least. She hated to admit that the Inquisitor had been slowly becoming more and more lost in her drinking, but it was not something that could be ignored anymore. The fate of Thedas depended on her. She must be able to stand and defend it. 

Vivienne leaned down next to her, and inspected her face. Her eyes were sunken in and swollen, and she seemed to be staring blankly into the dying fire. But something more alarming caught her attention. Peeking under the furs she had wrapped around herself was her hairline. Or, what remained of it.

“Darling, your hair!” she gasped before reaching and pulling the fur back. It was gone. What was left was cropped closely to her scalp.

She was frightening Vivienne. Lavellan took much pride in her appearances, spending a large amount of time everyday carefully weaving her hair with her beads and baubles. To see it gone so suddenly….and the blank stare. It reminded her of the night in the Hissing Wastes. The mutilated body, and Lavellan staring ahead as if she didn’t see anything. She rested her hand on her shoulder, kneeling all the way down next to her. “What happened?”

“Do you know what I was before the Conclave, Vivienne?”

“A Dalish huntress,” she answered gently. She would need to handle this delicately. The rest of the Inquisition could not see her like this. 

“No,” she shook her head, “Calling me just a huntress is blasphemy among my people. I was much, much more.”

Lavellan set her drink down and stood up, the furs hanging from her shoulders and dragging on the floor.

“I was so much more. What you are now to the court of Orlais, I was even more. You advise on political matters. I advised on the matters of the Goddess Herself. Her will was my will. Her demands were my demands. By my command, people lived and people died. By my whims,clans rose and fell. The power you so hungrily grasp for was mine by rights.”

She began to pace the floor.

“I had everything. Everything!” her hands waved wildly and her words spilled into each other, “And I lost it all to short-sighted human scheming to take what isn’t theirs. Why should I prop up the Chantry? Why should I save it? What has the Chantry done that is worth saving?”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes at the drunken display, “Andraste helped free your people…”

“FREE?! DO YOU CALL THIS FREE?!” Lavellan bellowed. It startled the mage. 

“Elves serving humans, elves still slaves in Tevinter, elves being plucked from the only life they’ve known and pushed in Chantry circles, elves being wiped out by zealous fools with too much power! Is this the freedom Andraste ‘gave’ us? It was never hers to give in the first place!”

“Inquisitor, please calm…” she started.

“No,” her furs swished at her feet as she furiously walked up and down the length of her room, “Freedom is not given. Freedom is not earned. Freedom is only taken away and crushed so that the Chantry doesn’t have to confront the damage they’ve done to this world. I won’t allow it.”

“That is your perogative, of course,” Vivienne said slowly, “But the Chantry is what the people believe in. Many of your own people, included. They would not benefit from seeing it fail.”

She paused in front of the doors to her balcony, and seemed to reflect on what she had said.

“Leave me alone tonight, Vivienne. I need to mourn my family,” she ordered her before pulling her balcony doors open and stepping outside. 

She did not stay to prod her further on what she meant. Vivienne had been in the Game long enough to know when someone had the conviction and means to accomplish something that could change the entire playing field. And Lavellan had that and more. She rushed back down the stairs leading to the main hall of Skyhold. Her plans were in need of changing, adapting. She could no longer trust the Inquisitor to work in her best interests.

She had some letters to compose. 


	11. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual language/abusive language in this chapter.

Solas stood on the edge of the reach of the anchor once again. He watched the anchor’s power coil and warp the Fade around it. Great arcs of energy shot up and out, then receded back into the foggy haze. He felt the Fade shift and shake every time it did, and he wondered how it was managing to grow and become more tangible each time he saw it. It was only a piece of the full potential trapped in the foci. That it was able to thrive in the body of a mortal was astounding.

He also wondered how the spirit of devotion’s purpose had not been corrupted yet. Every time he visited his vestigial power, the spirit was there as well. It stalked along the edges of the haze, often staring him down with feral eyes. It reminded him of a beast circling its prey, and something about it unsettled him. Devotion was a strong connection, but often short-lived in spirits. They were almost never acknowledged by what they clung to, causing a disturbance in them that often turned them into little more than essences of rage. That this spirit still remained spoke of the memory of the man it connected with. 

“Why don’t you come down to talk?” it shouted up at him, aggressively pacing against the boundary of the anchor. 

“I’d rather not,” Solas replied calmly, “The last time we spoke, you shot me with an arrow.”

The spirit laughed darkly, “You’re lucky I didn’t do worse. Besides, don’t you think I could shoot you just as easily from here?”

Solas frowned. This spirit was testing his patience, and he was agitated that it was actually working. He was not used to having to be defensive in a place he had wandered for so long. 

“I believe you would have done it if you could,” he answered. 

“Or maybe I just want to talk.”

He knew this spirit had no intention of conversing with him. It was searching for weakness, and searching for a way to reach the Inquisitor. He suspected it intended to try to possess her. 

“Speak then,” he said, “But I will stay here.”

“Coward! Do you always hide when things get too hard? Did you hide when you betrayed your kin?” the spirit called up.

It was just taunting him now. “It is not cowardly to want to stay alive, spirit.”

“I’m not a spirit!” it shouted, its face contorting in anger. 

“Denying our nature doesn’t change it,” he explained, “You are merely a spirit acting upon the memories of a man long gone.”

“Kinslayer! Trickster! Betrayer!” the spirit yelled, “Haven’t you tried denying these things to change your nature, Dread Wolf? What a high pedestal you put yourself on!”

“I know this. I have told myself the same thing many times through the ages.”

“You may have told yourself it, but it looks like you never learned. Come down here, I’ll teach you,” it continued its taunting.

The spirit was wearing him down. Solas had been visiting the anchor in the Fade very often as of late, his mind filling with ideas on how to free it from Lavellan’s hand. The foci could draw it out, but he had to prepare for all eventualities. Corypheus had suffered defeat in the Temple of Mythal, but he was not weak. She could easily lose her battle with him. 

It was a thought he had dwelled on too much. Losing her tore at him, haunted his waking thoughts as surely as this damnable spirit haunted his sleeping ones. She was not fragile, but she was mortal. No matter what the outcome, she could not live forever. He would get the power from the anchor one way or another.

“You’re pathetic. Nothing more than a puppy,” the spirit furiously paced up and down the boundary, “You come here searching for some way to have your power and have her too. Fucking useless. Some god.”

“I never claimed to be a god.”

The spirit spit on the ground, “Denying your nature doesn’t change it, puppy.Isn’t that what you just told me?”

He said nothing. He would not rise to its bait. 

“You think you love her, you think you’re conflicted on what’s most important to you, and it’s all vanity.You’re making something big out of something very small. Nothing you do matters. She doesn’t love you, you aren’t important to her, and she will always compare you to me,” the spirit pointed straight at him, “and find you lacking.”

“You know nothing of these matters, spirit. Do not test me.”

It clenched its jaw at the statement, and without missing a beat, began to unclasp the leather cuirass it was wearing. It shed the cuirass, dropping on the ground. The spirit pulled the undershirt off as well, tossing it aside haphazardly.Solas watched on, curious. 

“Do you see this?” it asked, motioning to a large, jagged scar on its chest, “This is love. I was willing to give up everything for her. My own life for hers. I would do it again. And again. For a thousand lifetimes if I had to. All you’ve done is lie to her and to yourself. This isn’t about your duty, it’s about your guilt. And your fear.”

He gritted his teeth, “And what of you? What do you hope to accomplish by doing this? It does not bring you any closer to her.”

“It’s not about what I want,” it said, “I know I can’t go back. Gods, I want to, but I can’t. It’s about her. It will always be about her. Until the Huntress comes and claims me, it will always be Elain.”

It spoke her name again and it made him want to banish it to the farthest depths of the abyss. It was unjust that spirit was able to have those memories of her. Before she was Inquisitor. Before she was jaded and bitter. 

“I offered you your freedom once. You can be released and find peace without fear of the Huntress, but you refused me.”

“And I will do it again and again until the sun goes out and the seas dry. I told you...I’m bound to her. I won’t leave,” the spirit said with conviction, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand being bound to duty all too well, spirit. Do not presume to know me.”

“A duty to what? To fix your mistakes? Is deciding the fate of the world and undoing what you already did fixing anything? How can the god whose arrogance damned the elves possibly fix it? The only thing you’re bound to is doing whatever you can to make yourself feel less guilty. Pathetic,” it spit the word like a curse.

Solas turned and began to walk away. He had enough of this spirit’s nonsense. It was meddling in matters it did not comprehend. 

“Oh, running away again? Is the truth too hard to handle? Or does the puppy think that if he ignores it, it will be less true?”

He continued walking. He refused to engage in this game any longer.

“Poor wolf. Such a heavy burden he bears. So much responsibility. So many lives depending on him. He is so important, so vital to the elves. Except when he’s not. When he shuns his titles and his role in creation. When he is just man with a man’s needs. Then the lie is okay and for her own good. Tell me, puppy; does she cry your name after you lie your way into her bed? That’s how you know she really likes it. I could get her to scream _mine_.”

He flinched. Despite his control, something about the statement cut him. There was too much accuracy in it for his liking. The lie was necessary. The truth of his nature would change her perspective. He couldn’t chance that she would not allow him to take the foci. He continued walking, but his faltering did not escape the spirit’s notice. 

“Oh, she doesn’t, does she? Too bad. My favorite memories of her are with her face flushed and her fingers digging in my skin. Such a _shame_ you don’t get to experience it. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Of course you would fail at that like you fail at everything else. I guess it’s just another thing she keeps from you to stop you from feeling bad about yourself. A god letting himself be coddled by a mortal so he can feel better about what a failure he is. Worthless!”

“Enough!” Solas turned and yelled, his temper lost. He immediately regretted it.

The spirit laughed loudly, but without any mirth. Solas had lingered too long, stayed too close, and let the spirit’s baiting anger him. He had allowed it, and he knew it. 

With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and woke up. His little room in Skyhold filled his vision, and he centered his breathing, attempting to calm his nerves. It was still dark, the night heavy in the air. He laid still for a few moments, reflecting on the strangely confrontative spirit and its nature. It was attached to the memory of someone who was obviously close to Lavellan. Her Banal’ras. She had never spoken of him, or anyone in her clan, for that matter. He suspected the man was dead. It went without saying, since all of her clan was dead now. Either way, he was disturbed that she never spoke about him. Who he was. What he was. What she was.

It dawned on him that he had done no better with her, hiding his nature from her this whole time. He had used her and the Inquisition as a means to undo the chaos he had wrought with his stumbling. But it was different now, wasn’t it? He loved her, loved her with a burning that couldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried. He wanted nothing more than to be in her presence, soak in her beauty. He wanted it to just be simple and easy. And why shouldn’t it be? It didn’t have to be him anymore to undo everything. She was perfectly capable. Perhaps the world would be even better off in her hands.

The spirit had been right. His turmoil was self-created and self-inflicted, and he had spent far too long making excuses for it. It was easier to blame the Dalish and the city elves for their continued existence than to confront that perhaps he did not know best. It was easier to hide from it. To hide from what he was. But she deserved more. He laid back down and closed his eyes to drift back into sleep. He would not approach the anchor again. 

And he would tell her the truth.

\---

Elain sat in front of the statue of Andraste in Skyhold’s garden chapel. It was well into the night, and she was well into her second bottle of wine for the evening. The statue was pristine marble, the prophet’s face carved with loving hands. She looked serenely out the tall doors to the garden, as if she could see past Elain entirely. Her chin up, gazing into the future, with the broken elf sitting underneath her. It was fitting. She brought the drink to her mouth, and gulped it down in mouthfuls.

“There you are,” Dorian said from behind her, “This is absolutely the last place I expected to find you.”

“There’s a reason why,” she said dully.

“Yes, yes. You want to continue your self-destructing in peace, but I know for a fact that drinking your problems away is so much more fun when you have an enabler.”

She snorted and handed her bottle to him as he sat down next to her. That sat in silence for a moment, but Dorian fidgeted, something pressing on his mind.

“I’m curious. We go to the Temple of Mythal, find out about your people, and you have a chance to gain something they lost. Something going back to the times of Arlathan. But you let Morrigan have it. Why?” he pestered her. 

She knew this would come. It was her duty, her obligation to take the knowledge that the Well of Sorrows offered. As a Dalish elf, as the last of her clan. But she knew what the Well was. It’s swirling depths whispered just inside her ears, and despite her wanting it, wanting that power, she could not take it. No matter what, she was still Maiden. Her will was still Andruil’s will, and that will was oppressive. She could not bind herself to another god, no matter what the stakes were. She had faltered.

“Not everything is worth the risk, Dorian. I already possess a power I don’t understand. I could not handle the burden of another.”

He nodded, “That makes more sense than Morrigan’s greedy grasping. Though, I heard it did not work out well for her.”

She smiled, “No. It did not.”

Elain may have faltered, but she was right. Mythal lived, in some sense, and in a shemlen, no less. Despite the Mother of Hare’s demands of sacrifice, She still reached out to The People. What had this great protector done? Watched as The People fell into the servitude and oppression. She plotted and schemed and created little shemlen children to pass on her plotting and scheming. Mythal was dead, and for all Elain knew, she may have been coerced by this human woman for more power. It was obvious that the wisp of the Goddess’ soul was under the control of the human that held it. If she believed killing Morrigan’s mother would release Mythal’s essence, she would’ve done so without hesitation.

“So what now, my friend? Do we march back to Haven and meet Corypheus in the place it all began?” he asked.

“It appears that way. Good riddance. I am looking forward to killing him.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he took a drink of the wine, then passed it back to her, “But what about after that? What will you do? I don’t suppose you can return to the Dalish…”

“Why not?” she questioned him before taking a drink.

“Well...er...you know,” he was nervous about bringing up her dead family, “Would another clan take you in? Is that how it works with the Dalish?”

She nodded, “For the most part. We are supportive of each other. We have to be. Otherwise, we could not survive.”

“Could you really go back though? After all this? After all you’ve seen? After knowing what you know about the ancient elves? Don’t you want to try to help the elves here? With Solas?”

Her temper soured quickly, “No. All my efforts to help them here ended with my family dead. And why would I want to stay with someone who doesn’t know what he wants? I have no time for waffling.”

“Did something happen with Solas?”

She stood up abruptly. 

“This isn’t about Solas.”

He grabbed the bottle from her hand and took another drink, “I will take that as a ‘yes’.”

“Do you think my entire life is Solas? That I would break down and fall apart because he cannot make up his mind? That he affected me more than the fact that my clan was hunted down and slaughtered like they were animals? His demons are his own. If he doesn’t want to be with me, then so be it. I have much larger concerns than the whims of a man.”

“Oh? That sounds ominous,” he joked. She did not smile at the jest, and stared up at Andraste’s marble face. A thought struck her. 

“Why do you want to save Tevinter so badly, Dorian? How can you reconcile the damage they have done to the world?”

He sighed, “I see it’s going to be one of _those_ conversations again. Very well. Despite the damage the Imperium has caused, we’ve spread culture and art and sciences across Thedas. Influences from the Imperium even live here in Skyhold. There are things worth saving there, Inquisitor. Clean water transported directly to homes, the most extensive education in the world, artistic achievements that last for centuries...the list goes on and on.”

“And how many of those things do the elves living there benefit from? Do they get clean water? Education? Access to artistic achievements?”

Dorian cleared his throat roughly, “Well, no, not at the moment. I admit, it is not a perfect system, but…”

“Why not just destroy the system and use the engineering and cultural achievements to rebuild?”

“I doubt destroying the system entirely will benefit anyone, Lavellan. Empires collapsing are always disastrous to all who live underneath them,” he explained. 

“It would benefit those who rebuild it; who make something new, better out of it. A lifetime of suffering for a millennia of peace and prosperity seems a fair trade.”

His face contorted into disbelief, “That’s a rather callous opinion for someone who wants to champion for the oppressed elves of Thedas.”

She looked down on him, “Hard decisions have to be made sometimes. Those who want revolution have to have the stomach for it.”

“Then maybe that’s why I’m here drinking in a chapel instead of changing my homeland,” he said. 

“Maybe,” she looked out over the garden, deep in thought. Plans and ideas churned in her wine-fogged mind.

Perhaps she had been too small in her thinking for changing the plight of elves in Thedas. She had been trying to use her political power and prowess to strong arm these humans into it. It had been largely unsuccessful. But that was not the only power she had. 

She looked down on her hand, the anchor glowing. The power seeped warm and electric into her arm, and she lovingly coaxed it to flare around her wrist. Control was getting easier, and she needed less and less willpower to do it. It was as if the anchor itself was a living thing, and once it was used to her, it allowed her to work with it. It reminded her of a halla, in that way. Stubborn and free, but willing to cooperate with you if you respected it. 

Elain respected it. This power was real. This wasn’t a series of dinner parties and promises of alliances and sending placating gifts and allowing disgusting shems to fetishize her for the sake of getting a little respect for elves in return. The anchor, if properly utilized, could change the tide of a battle. Could decide a war. The prospects became very real to her, and the idea of using it tear apart this human world titillated her. She was tired of hearing Dorian’s excuses for Tevinter, Vivienne’s excuses for the Chantry, Bull’s excuses for the Qun….this power could silence them all. 

She suddenly realized that it was within her reach. The thought of it always hung in her mind, but she opted to cooperate with the humans and the inner circle of her Inquisition to maintain alliances. There was no point any longer. Everything she had known, everything she had loved was gone within a flash for all her trouble. She owed these people nothing, and they owed her everything. And now, with this epiphany, she knew could do what was necessary while all others put their hands over their eyes and ignored the problems right in front of their faces.

“I need to go Dorian,” she said suddenly.

“Hmm? Is something wrong?” he asked as he lazily sipped the bottle of wine.

“No,” she said absently as she walked out of the chapel, “But something might just go right.”

She made her way back to the main hall of Skyhold and headed towards her Ambassador’s office. Elain was not surprised to see Josephine at her desk, still working, at this hour in the night. For all her toothless gestures, she was dedicated to her work.

“Inquisitor? Is there something I can do for you?” she looked up from her work. 

Elain smiled widely at her and sat in the chair across from her desk.

“Yes,” she responded, “I need a letter composed. Can you transcribe it as I speak?”

Josephine smiled back at her, relief written in her eyes. She probably thought the cloud of that had been hanging over Elain’s head was starting to disappear. How right she was. 

Josephine pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and dipped her quill into the inkwell, ready to begin. Elain took a deep breath, and began to speak.

_“To Keeper Paeris of Clan Diceni,_

_Greetings, my dearest brother. It has been far too long since we have spoken. I hope all is well in the Basin and that your family prospers._

_As of late, I have been reflecting on a conversation we had long ago, when I ascended to my rightful title in our clan. At the time, I believed you to be overzealous and perhaps too ambitious. With the destruction of our beloved family and home due to the thoughtless actions of the humans in the Free Marches, I have decided that you were right all along….”_


	12. Dominion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain changes the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence. Character death. Gore.

Tribune Caeto entered Skyhold on a bitterly cold winter evening with his full entourage in tow. He had hoped to arrive earlier in the season, but the war made travel over the borders difficult. Even with his official documents and treaties, the elves continually delayed him. His guard was weary, and his attendants were antsy. This war had cost his homeland much, and he took his role as representative of the Imperium very seriously. He was all that stood between peace and annihilation now.

As they crossed the gates into the fortress, he couldn’t help but notice the lack of Inquisition forces. He had heard on the trip that there was some disagreements within the organization, but it made him a little more than nervous to see all the standards were Dalish and hundreds of tattooed faces on the battlements watching his entrance intently. Caeto had hoped the disagreements were small rifts that may cause the fighting to die down enough for an alliance to be procured, but the lack of any human presence here was disheartening. He looked to his lead guard and saw nervousness written on his face as well. 

“Tribune Caeto!” a Dalish elf called from the top of the stairs leading into what he assumed was the main hall of the fortress. Caeto nodded to his guard, and they proceeded up towards the elf. 

“I apologize for not greeting you at the gate, Tribune,” the elf said as they approached, his face covered in garish tattoos, “There were last minute accommodations that had to be made for you.I hope you will forgive me. We’ll have your attendants sent there right away to unpack your possessions.”

“But of course…err...”

“Seneschal Paeris,” the elf filled him in.

“Yes, Seneschal Paeris. It is of no trouble. We are happy to be so warmly greeted, in any case,” Caeto responded. He waved his attendants off to have their luggage handled, and he and his guards followed the seneschal into the hall.

As they entered the fortress proper, he was surprised to see elaborate tapestries and decor depicting things he had only seen in museums in Tevinter; elves riding their halla into battle, elves drawing bows against supernatural creatures, elves conjuring fire and lightning and all manner of magics. Old things from the elven empire adorned every inch of the hall, and the smell of strong incense filled the hall. If he didn’t know any better, he would say this was a shrine.

“How was your trip? I hope our soldiers didn’t give you too much trouble,” the seneschal asked him, “The commander of our armies has had to be more diligent in policing the borders. It seems your countrymen have a difficult time fighting a war without slaves to use for blood magic.”

Caeto cleared his throat, “Archon Mavronus has ordered a cease and desist on the use of any slaves, as you well know. The ones using slaves for blood magic are rogue elements. The Archon has been occupied fighting a war on two fronts, and apprehending these vigilantes has been woefully underlooked.”

“I’m sure Mavronus is doing his best, Tribune. On top of the Herald, he has to deal with the Qunari. No small task,” the elf paused at the front of the hall before a great wooden throne covered in gold leaf and draped in fur, “Please, wait here. The Herald will be out soon.”

The seneschal walked through a door to the left of the throne, leaving Caeto and his guards alone in the suspiciously quiet hall. The only noise they could hear was the fire crackling. 

“I don’t like this, Tribune,” his lead guard said, “Where are all the servants? The diplomats? The agents?”

“I don’t know,” Caeto commented quietly, “The news out of Skyhold has been scarce since Divine Victoria attempted her coup. All we know is that the Chantry is in shambles and the Inquisition is divided between those loyal to the Divine and those loyal to the Herald.”

“The Divine doesn’t seem able to keep a handle on her own clerics though. How can she handle an army?”

Caeto shrugged his shoulders, “The intel isn’t good. The Divine is the Inquisition’s former Spymaster, so she is good at keeping her secrets. As for the Herald herself…no one gets close enough to find out. This looks bad, but it might be the only chance we have to resolve this mess.”

His guard grunted, and they stood silent as they waited. Time started to slip away, and the sun fell behind the mountains. Night came, and still, no movement inside Skyhold itself. No tables set with food, no advisors or underlings coming and going, no administration whatsoever. Caeto’s guard fidgeted and grew scared, and even Caeto himself grew anxious. The matter was important, but he had his limits. 

Just when he thought about leaving this tomb-like atmosphere, the side door near the throne opened.

Two elves came out; the seneschal from earlier, and another one in full military regalia. He had only one eye and a severely scarred face. They flanked either side of the throne, but said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“Greetings, Tribune Caeto. Welcome to Skyhold.”

The voice came from behind them, and he and his guards turned to see the Herald herself making her way up the main hall. Caeto knew she was an elf, but not like any elf he had ever seen. She wore a heavy fur mantle, larger than her shoulders and voluminous. It was attached to a long cloak that drug across the floor as she walked. Her hair was dark and woven into intricate braids with beads and jewelry. The braids sat on the top of her head, like the nest of a bird. Across her face, a stripe of black greasepaint from temple to temple, obscuring her eyes and making her look wild. 

Most menacing though was the Anchor. The power the Herald held that had brought every nation to its knees. It’s magical energy pooled in her graceful hand, flowing outwards then back in, crawling through the abandoned hall like a snake. One of his guards stumbled backwards when the magic nearly touched him, making the Herald smirk.

She walked past them, the Anchor still flaring and licking the air, and she ascended the steps to her throne. With the utmost grace and dignity, she sat upon the gilded throne and looked down on Caeto and his guards as if they were insects. 

“I am so sorry I am late to this meeting. Unfortunately, I am lamentably busy as of late. There is much rebuilding that must be done after war, as you well know,” her voice was a purr, playing in Caeto’s ears like the sweetest music.

“It is no trouble, my Lady. I understand the tremendous amount of work that is required in administering an empire,” he bowed low as he spoke. His guards followed suit.

The Herald cocked her eyebrow at his statement, “Do you?”

“I work very closely with Archon Mavronus in matters of the state. It is why I am here. Only his closest advisor could be trusted with a mission of this level of importance,” he explained.

“How thoughtful of the Archon. Has he sent his terms for a treaty with you?”

“Of course, my Lady. And if I may say, they are very generous. All the demands you made in Perivantium are included, as well as some additional concessions that I believe you will find agreeable,” he pulled the sealed parchment cases from his robes. 

The seneschal walked down the stairs and snatched the cases from his hands and handed them to the Herald. One by one, she unsealed them and unfolded the proposed treaties inside. Caeto sweated nervously as she read over the documents he himself helped draft, and prayed it would be enough. 

“While these terms are agreeable, Tribune, they are not what I demanded. There are no stipulations to hand over Vol Dorma or Asariel….”

“Forgive me, my Lady, but both those cities are integral to the economic well-being of the Imperi--”

The shock of the magic from the Anchor hitting him was so painful, he thought he might die. It felt as if every piece of his body was being torn apart, and he sensed the familiar touch of the Fade. As a mage, he had studied and endured many different types of magic, and none had felt like this. It pulled the air from his lungs, and when the Anchor’s power receded, he fell to his knees and gasped for air, choking on his own sobs. 

“I do not like being interrupted, Tribune. Your Archon doesn’t think to take me seriously and sends a buffoon with false treaties in an effort to distract me.”

“N..no..no, My Lady” he managed to gasp out. He heard the sounds of shuffling feet entering the main hall, and almost immediately, he and his guards were surrounded by a contingent of soldiers. 

“Do not lie to me,” she said coldly, “Warlord Threlen, what did your interrogators discover from the serving staff of the Tribune?”

The heavily scarred elf spoke, “That the Tribune was sent as a distraction while the assassin in the staff was meant to kill you. The assassin confirmed this story.”

One of the soldiers threw a bag at Caeto, and it made a heavy thud at his feet.

“Open it,” the Herald demanded.

With shaking hands, Caeto bent over and untied the bag, pulling the drawstring wide open. Inside was the head of one of his staff; the eyes were missing and the wide open mouth showed that there was no tongue either. He screamed and fell backwards at the sight.

“This is what happens when the Imperium tries to make a fool of me,” she said tonelessly, “Kill them.”

Caeto watched as the soldiers cut down his guards and felt the sting of elven steel entering his gut as well. He bled out on the stone floor of Skyhold, his mission failed.

“What a pathetic plot,” Elain said as she rose from her throne. 

“Indeed,” Paeris agreed. The soldiers dragged the bodies away, but their blood still remained on her floors. 

“It’s too convenient,” Threlen commented, “The assassin was found out far too quickly and the distraction was obviously planted.”

“Or, Mavronus truly has no gambits left and this was the best he could do,” Elain mused as she stretched her back and motioned for one of the staff to bring her wine.

“Mavronus is desperate, but not stupid,” Threlen argued, “I don’t think this was the end of it.”

“Mavronus has no resources to try anything else,” Paeris said, “He is trapped in Minrathous while the rest of the Imperium is in chaos. He would’ve been smart to truce with the Qunari when they suggested it, but his country’s pride wouldn’t allow him. Let him fester there, I say. We have more than enough ground in Tevinter now to fortify against any forces he can throw at us.”

“No,” Elain said dully as she reached for the wine her staff member brought her. She took a drink, then set the cup down on the armrests of her throne. “I am sick of the Imperium. We go ahead as planned.”

“Maiden, the army is bogged down in the Dales against the Divine’s forces. If we launch a full-scale attack on Minrathous now, she may just take them back,” Threlen said. 

“We won’t pull the army from the Dales. They can hold out another season while we march. We will conscript more soldiers on the way to Minrathous to bolster our veteran troops.”

“Is that the best idea? Staging a siege on Minrathous will require more seasoned soldiers,” Paeris started.

“Who said anything about a siege?” she asked. 

Threlen and Paeris exchanged glances of confusion, and she smiled at the ignorance they still feigned after all these years of warfare with her. 

“There will be no siege. We will march to the Imperium and burn Minrathous to the ground. I want nothing saved.”

“But…”

“There will be no argument, Threlen. Go prepare the troops and send word. I want us marching out of the Frostbacks within the month,” she ordered.

He brought his fist to his chest and bowed curtly before leaving. Once he was out of the main hall, Paeris turned to her.

“Are you sure about this? The humans are already starting to rise up in cities across the continent. They aren’t ready for such an upheaval.”

“Then they should get ready. Our people have lived under their boots so long, they cannot fathom a world in which they are being stepped on,” she brushed him off.

“There will be more assassination attempts,” he warned.

She picked up her wine glass and started to make way to her quarters, “I know.”

He followed her, holding her door open as she drug her Mantle in, “And what of the Dread Wolf?”

She scoffed, “What of him?”

“He almost killed you on the Silent Plains.”

“He did no such thing, Paeris,” she said, annoyed with his insinuations, “He is a coward who could not finish the job he started. If he interferes again, he is the one who will die.”

“You’re speaking of a god, Elain.”

“I’m speaking of a man who is too weak to pick up the pieces of the world he ruined. The god in him left long ago.”

Paeris paused as they reached the top of the staircase leading to her room. 

“It still sounds like blasphemy to me,” he said quietly.

“You’re superstitious for someone who told me the gods don’t matter anymore.”

He looked up at her darkly, “That was before I realized they still existed.”

“Hush. It will be fine. Go be with your family. Once we march, it may be many seasons before you see them again.”

Paeris sighed and turned to leave, making his way back down the long staircase. He was far too worried about what the gods thought anymore. They had been waging war for ten years, and none but Solas had tried to intervene. She drained her wine and entered her room.

The brazier inside was cold and the room was dark. She did not like having it warm anymore, and she wanted no fires to cast any dancing shadows. The staff had called her paranoid. Perhaps they were right. She made her way across the room and sat in front of her vanity. Slowly, she unbraided her hair and removed all the beads and strips of leather inside. She paused on a small bead made of ivory, shaped to look like a hare. It had been a gift from Revas shortly after her ascension to Maiden. That had been twenty years ago. So long, and yet, she still remembered it with a clarity that was painful.

Without fail, as soon as her thoughts turned to him, the white amorphous objects from her dreams began to float behind her, and she saw one form into his shape through her mirror. The sunken cheeks, the black eyes, the glowing red vallaslin. He was always the same in this form, and he never spoke. She stood up and unclasped her Mantle, hanging on a nearby stand. With a sigh, she looked right at the phantom Revas, then made her way to her bed, climbing in and covering herself with the heavy furs.

“Go away, Revas. The dead cannot come back,” she said tiredly, even as she felt the soft down of her bed begin to writhe with maggots, “And you are dead.”

She closed her eyes, inviting sleep, as she heard the rattling breathing of the phantom and felt the tiny teeth of the maggots chew on her skin. She was too far gone to feel the knife slip into the soft flesh under her jaw, and simply too exhausted to fight as she choked on her own blood.

Elain’s last thoughts were of fire and pain, and a love long lost.

\---

Emery wiped the blade that killed the Herald on his cloak and resheathed it on his belt. It had been far too easy. She had even looked right at him and talked to him, though he believed it wasn’t intentional. The stories of her madness were true, it seemed.

A pity. 

He wished there would’ve been a better way to go about this. There had been such promise in her movement, such hope. When the first alienages were liberated, when the first human cities fell to elven rule in the Dales, it seemed that the elves would finally get their due. But then she started to change. It wasn’t enough to rule the Dales; she wanted to rule the world. 

City after city fell, and ones like Wycome and Llomerryn were razed to the ground. Any resistance ended in scorched earth, and it was becoming apparent that after the Herald’s conquest, there would be little left for the new elven empire to rule. 

Sacrifice, she had said. Sacrifice was needed to change the world. When her dismissed elven advisors came to him and asked for his aid in ending her reign, he knew the sacrifice would have to be hers. With her dead, the elven forces would fight all that much harder for their Herald. The Dales would become the center of the world, and they would focus on building there, instead of destroying everywhere else.

Andraste didn’t volunteer for the fire, and the Herald certainly would not have stopped. It was for the greater good. 

That’s what Emery had to tell himself to make it okay. He’d done a lot of unsavory dealings in his life, but he respected the Herald. She did good work, whatever the cost, and helped the elven cause far more than she had hindered it. But it had to end somewhere, and it was better it was done quickly and cleanly, instead of her being sent to the pyre.

Emery slipped out of her quarters of Skyhold into the dark night, a rumble in his gut telling him that no matter what the case, her empty eyes that stared right through him would still haunt his dreams.

\--

Solas knew the exact moment she had died. He had been wandering the Fade, trying to seek out remnants from the lost empire, attempting to gain some power he could use to subdue her. She was callously using the anchor to wipe entire cities off the map of Thedas with no regards to the inhabitants. Demons and spirits alike were at her bidding, and she used them with no guilt whatsoever. Her conquest was subjecting the people of Thedas to terror and death, and she was his responsibility. 

And yet, when he confronted her, he had the chance to end it, but he stayed his hand. The love he carried for her was still there, and he could not bring himself to distinguish the light behind her defiant eyes.

So when his power came flying back to him with the speed of lightning, he knew it no longer had a host to hold it. It entered his body again, and filled him with its energy and light. It flowed like blood, pulsing in his veins, rushing through him, making him whole again. For the first time since he went to sleep, he felt like his true self.

Gaining Mythal’s wisp had done very little. Though her power was still there, it was a fragment, a remnant. It was not enough to accomplish his goals. But now, with his old power restored, there was still hope. He tried not to think about the pain of the cost. There would not be another soul like hers to walk this world for a very, very long time.

He had raised his hand to watch his energy arc off his fingertips, to test his new limits, but was interrupted when something slammed into him with alarming force.

“You!” the spirit that had followed her all those years shouted as it wrapped its hands around his throat, “You _killed_ her!”

Solas now needed to merely think about the force of his power, and it manifested strongly enough to launch the spirit off of him, making it roll on the non-corporeal ground. It gasped and struggled to rise again, while Solas righted himself with ease.

“I did not,” Solas told the spirit, “And you would be wise not to test me now, Banal’ras. I mourn for her as well.”

“Lying piece of shit,” the spirit spat out as it gained its footing and stood again, “You wanted her dead so you could get the anchor.”

 

“I never wanted her dead.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” it said bitterly. 

“I am sorry, spirit. I know you loved her,” Solas said sympathetically, “But you knew that she would not live forever. You can leave now.”

“Don’t you listen to one fucking word anyone tells you,? I _can’t_ leave. I’m not a spirit. I was bound to her and now that she is gone, there’s nothing stopping the Huntress from collecting,” it said with exasperation,”Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“You can release me,” the spirit became animated, circling around him, “You can break the bond and set me free. I can go be with her.”

It occurred to him that the spirit may be right. It had stayed by Lavellan’s side for years, never wandering, never falling prey to corruption that so many of its kind would. If this was the case, then it was something he had not seen for a great while.

“I already offered and you refused. Perhaps you should’ve thought your answer through,” he remarked, “I have no desire to release you now.”

The spirit grew enraged with his answer and lunged at him, but he was empowered again, and it remained in suspension as the magic came to life around him. The white, amorphous shapes of creation began to churn and bubble on the ground, and with merely a thought, he shaped them as great thrashing wolves, needle teeth and black eyes dripping with the inky magic of entropy. The wolves raced around the spirit like a great wind, warping the Fade as they did, and Solas could feel the surge of energy acutely. 

But something went wrong. He had only meant to frighten the spirit, to give voice to the power he now held again, but the thrashing nightmares he conjured became ravenous, and he felt the magic rush as they began to devour it.

Devour him. They began to devour _him_. He had been right; he was no spirit. He was the whole soul, unblemished, unsegmented, and unchained from the abyss. The realization came too late, and as the beasts he created began to consume what fueled their power, a surge of energy broke the feeding frenzy, disintegrating his creations. Inky black magic swirled around the man’s soul, and writhing maggots dripped off him. 

The soul saw the scene and began to panic, “Please...PLEASE! You have to release me. She’s going to take me!”

Solas shook his head and backed away slowly, “I can’t…”

“Please!” he begged, “I can’t, I don’t want to----”

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, Banal’ras. Your people have meddled in things they don’t understand,” Solas said.

“You can! You can stop this!” he cried, but it was too late. 

The inky magic pooled around him like a body of water, and abruptly from the blackness that surrounded him, the Golden Spear shot out and impaled the soul. He was filled with warm, golden light, and his form melted into dust. The golden dust swirled around the Spear, making it bright and brighter, until light shot out of the tip, heading straight for the Black City. 

Solas watched in horror as the Spear claimed the soul. But it was not over yet. The inky blackness still churned on the ground, and a dark-skinned hand burst through it. The second did the same, and they searched blindly for the edge of the magic. Once they found it, strong, athletic arms pulled her out of the pool entirely, and for the first time in millennia, he saw his kin.

She stood as tall as she ever did, her teeth still full of corruption, her eyes still glassy black. He was disturbed she had gained so much power in these years she spent sleeping.

“It has been a very long time, Bringer of Nightmares,” she said, her voice echoing across the landscape of the Fade, making it bend around her.

“Not long enough, Mother of Hares.”

She laughed loudly, “I see you found your power again. It’s a shame my Maiden hadn’t been strong enough to unlock all of its potential. Ah, but you know how these quick-blooded mortals are.”

“And I see your prison has become weakened, if you are able to fully manifest here. How long has that been the case?”

Her smile was sinister and wide, jagged teeth digging into her lips and making them bleed, “Long enough to see the damage you’ve done to The People. Do not worry though, Dread Wolf, I will set right what you tore asunder. But for now, I still am not strong enough. Perhaps you should come visit me soon….I think we are long over due for a heart-to-heart.”

Before he could respond, her towering body transformed into the primordial maggots, falling to the ground and sinking back into her magic. The pool disintegrated, and Solas was left with his mouth agape and his mind racing as he watched the ground leave no trace of her presence. He had made a mistake. He had misjudged, as was always the case. He had to right this. 

With renewed purpose and a heart heavy with guilt, he went to the places he had not been since he locked his kin away and fell away from the world. The magic was now substantial enough to take form in these places, and Solas began his work. The Fade was a distant memory and the waking world lost to him. These in between places were where he could change this all, and he used every ounce of the ill-gained power he had to correct it.

He would make this right. No matter the cost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap! Hope you enjoyed my dark AU! If you'd like to see my canon and what happens to Elain, Revas, and Sar'een there, hop on over to Exalted! :)


End file.
